


don't think it will all be fine

by Verbana



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bottoming, Comfort, Feels, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-04-07 13:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19086466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbana/pseuds/Verbana
Summary: “I wanted you the first time I saw you. You were an arrow at my throat, but still I wanted you.”Mutilated, betrayed, and bent on leading his elves to freedom, Iorveth is deeply cautious by nature. He knows better than to entangle himself with the mysterious and intriguing White Wolf. But as they grow closer as allies working to defend Vergen, he finds his own defenses are not as impervious as he once believed.TLDR: Iorveth tries really hard to avoid catching feels and horny Geralt is kind of clueless.





	1. one

They had no fear and no anticipation of danger. Iorveth crouched in the shelter of the trees observing the oncoming figures from the boat that his scouts had been tracking along the riverbanks for days. It was a party of three strange humans: a spy in ridiculous hat, a red-haired sorceress, and the promised witcher, lean and silver, like an old dog. They varied, he knew. He had only met vipers: Serrit and Aukes who slipped about in the shadows, hooded and silent, and Letho who looked more bull than serpent, was but fast and deadly nonetheless.

This witcher, striding so casually up the road to Flotsam, wore a spiky pendant with the face of a wolf that bounced off his breastplate. But wolves hunted in packs; this scarred loner looked a weary beast and hardly an adequate enemy. Striding next to him, the ginger sorceress seemed out of place and far too young. Of course, all sorceresses created an illusion of youth and beauty through unnatural means, but they had a cruel hardness in their eyes that this one lacked.

Letho had told him the sorceress was the witcher’s weakness. He often fell under the spell of beautiful, powerful women, much to his own detriment. This went against all Iorveth knew of witchers. They were meant to be cold, emotionless monster slayers, only motivated by money and an urge to kill. The thought of this wiry old wolf being heart-bound to a slip of a girl with her red hair twisted in twin buns amused him.

He turned his gaze to the spy, that vexing hound Roche. He strolled along the river as though he owned it, not even searching for threats. It seemed almost too easy to scoop him up and pluck the lily badge off his striped doublet. The newcomers were another story. Their intentions and abilities were clouded for him--were they really only here to hunt Letho? Or did Loredo send for them to advance his machinations?  It was time set a scene and establish the order of things, time to test their mettle. He turned his head and signaled to Mona and her squadron. She gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment. He eased on to a limb over the path and held the flute to his lips.

 

Although his mind at the time was focused more on finding Letho and escaping a barrage of arrows from the murderous Scoia’tael elves, Geralt couldn’t forget the woodland fox, the zealous commander taunting them with speeches and threats while perched on a tree branch and holding a flute.

Geralt expected that unimposing folk could be leaders if they had the necessary skills and charisma, but it helped to be striking, and Iorveth was very much so. Broader than the typical slender elf, he seemed even bigger when he spoke in that deep, rolling voice. His forearms were well muscled, his armor battered and strung with fallen commando badges, and his calves curved out of worn boots. But his face had a sleek, otherworldly beauty, only sharpened by the scarf that covered half of it and the scar that curved to the corner of his lips. It lingered in the back of Geralt’s mind, that scar, that voice. No wonder he had become the boogeyman and the folk hero, the wild killer and king of the forest. The flute song and the speech before the attack—only a mad narcissist would think it necessary. But in Geralt’s experience, beloved leaders were often mad narcissists.

In the days that followed—the thwarted execution and intrigue with Loredo, the fist fights, nekker caves, haunted hospitals, bridge trolls, and that awful fucking kayran battle—Geralt could easily have forgotten about Iorveth and his merry elves. But the crude sketch of his face glaring down from wanted posters on every gate served a constant reminder of his sinister presence. Also the fact that he was Geralt’s only link to Letho, the ambitious assassin, kept Iorveth simmering in Geralt’s mind.

When the arrogant elf Ele’yas sent Geralt and Zoltan to the arachas’ den to meet Iorveth, Geralt merely squared his shoulders and applied insectoid oil to his silver blade. The beast fell quickly, staggering under his barrage of blows. He rolled behind it and delivered the killing strike to the soft underside of its shell. Before he could even clean the slime off his weapon, the elves appeared with raised bows. Iorveth himself sprang neatly to the ground before Geralt, seemingly without any hesitation. Geralt let his sword rest on the soft forest floor.

“A worthy battle,” Iorveth declared haughtily, “Witchers deserve their reputation it seems.”

“What? You couldn’t take out this bastard yourself?”

“It served a purpose,” Iorveth said. “Not all of us cut down every forest creature we see.”

“Too bad you couldn’t feed it any witchers today.”

“And deny my warriors the satisfaction of filling you and your treacherous companion with arrows? Never.”

“Let Zoltan go,” Geralt said. “He hasn’t betrayed you. I asked him to help us meet because I think we both need Letho dead.”

“Why is that?” Iorveth demanded, suddenly looking serious.

“You’ve been betrayed,” Geralt insisted. “I spoke to Ciaran on the prison barge shortly before his death. Letho slaughtered his unit and he’s coming for you next.”

Iorveth stared at him impassively. The leaves tattooed on his throat quivered with his harsh exhale.

“Very well, I’ll take you to him and we will find out the truth from his reaction. But do not forget my Scoia’tael are targeting you every step of the way.”

Geralt could parry arrows with his sword, but not twelve at once. He kept quiet and nodded. Iorveth allowed himself to be bound, powerful archer’s wrists trapped in rope. His feather kept brushing Geralt’s face as they walked. It was slow going up to the ruins. Iorveth’s fingers curled tight with frustration as they made halting progress up the path. Finally, Letho appeared, silent and contemplative among the roses. He seemed smaller here without his cloak, slumped low in the shadow of the huge statue.

“What do we have here?” he rumbled.

“Your quarry all tied up and ready for you,” Geralt said. “I know you wanted him dead. You killed Ciaran’s unit already.”

Letho studied him. “So, what’s in it for you, wolf? You want a piece of the pie? Or are you playing a different game?”

When Roche’s commandos arrived and the slaughter began, Geralt paused for just a second before giving Iorveth a sword. He couldn’t lead a willing, bound captive into a massacre. Roche thought differently of course. Iorveth was an enemy of Temeria, after all, aiding assassins who aimed to murder legitimate rulers. But if you hated humans, Geralt reasoned, why wouldn’t you want to kill their kings? And most elves he knew had good reason to hate humans. That didn’t mean that Geralt was going to stop hunting down Foltest’s killer.

The fight with Letho did not end well. When Geralt returned to the inn and found that Letho had made good on his threat to take Triss, a helpless rage mounted inside him. He tracked a trail of blood to the swampy part of the forest where Cedric lay dying in a shallow pool of water. The sight of the gentle elf bleeding out in wetlands tipped his fury into bitter resignation. This would be another long, violent road, a journey he knew well by now. He watched the deer wander away from the scene of Cedric’s cooling body as clouds covered the moon. It was time to pick a side.

In the glen by the waterfall, Iorveth stood alone, no weapons in hand. His face was covered in darkness. “We take the prison barge and flee to Vergen now,” he said. “Fight with us. Free the suffering.”

The only freedom from suffering was death, Geralt knew. But he had just emerged from the town where dwarves were beaten and elves burned, and walking away from it all to help Roche hunt down the enemies of Temeria seemed a cold and pointless task. Once again, he found himself leading a bound criminal in a charade of imprisonment.

When Iorveth followed his lead on the barge and covered his back in the fight, a fierce joy sprang up in Geralt. They moved fluidly cutting down Loredo’s men as though they had practiced combat together. Iorveth’s curved sword sang in his hand. His blind side barely seemed to hinder him at all—perhaps compensated by keen hearing and speed. They cleared the boat of humans and lifted the anchor.

The escape appeared surprisingly successful, up until Loredo started burning a tower full of bound elves. It was an impossible dilemma: let a monster escape or save the victims.

“Our women are prepared to die,” Iorveth said roughly, in the tone of someone resolved to sacrifices.

Geralt didn’t even think before he leaped to the dock. He gritted his teeth as he tore up the stairs, lungs burning with the caustic smoke. No sign of Loredo as he scrambled to untie the women’s coarse bonds. His mind went back to the people in the crypt of Vizima who he had rescued from the ghouls, allowing their Scoia’tael captors to flee. The irony of the situation did not escape him. Seigfried’s joyous assurances that he was the best of men had saved his ego then. He wasn’t sure Iorveth would be quite as effusive, especially since he hated Loredo even more than he hated Roche.

The freed women plummeted into the river and swam to waiting barge. Geralt followed them, grimacing at the weight of his soaked armor. Iorveth and another slighter elf strained to pull him aboard. The cadre of escaping elves and dwarves looked gaunt and tired instead of victorious. Iorveth left Geralt sitting in a puddle and immediately went to organize the wounded on the thin gray pallets, assign healers, set a watch rotation through the night, and order a summary of the supplies. The nonhumans obeyed him without question and seemed content to ignore Geralt and Dandelion. Zoltan was vibrating with excitement at the thought of traveling to Vergen.

They would not catch the assassins in time, Geralt expected, but he could do nothing more but follow their trail and hope it led him to Letho and Triss.

 

The witcher was leaning on the railing of the ship when Iorveth found him, stripped down to his undershirt and breeches which clung damply to his lean frame. He did not look any smaller out of armor, and Iorveth grudgingly admitted to himself that the witcher may have an inch or two of height on him, though they were of similar build.

“Thank you for rescuing our people and helping us take the ship,” Iorveth said. “We owe you a debt. Few humans would have done the same.”

“I’m not a human,” the witcher said, “Not anymore. They call me a freak and an abomination. And a few other less gentle terms.”

His face was scarred across his forehead, eye, and cheek. His slit pupils in yellow irises were unnerving: the eyes of a night predator. He exuded a chill of secrecy and violence. But he had jumped from the boat without hesitation and run into a burning tower at the sound of screams. He had rescued elves and dwarves from the riots in Flotsam, and he was intently pursuing his pretty little sorceress. Letho was right. The witcher was not a ruthless hunter, but a man of many weaknesses and ideals. Iorveth could use a man with ideals. Saskia could use a man with ideals.

“There will be a place for you in Vergen,” Iorveth promised him. The dragonslayer is no devouring king or noble living off the backs of the peasants. She promises a free land of equals and I am sworn to aid her.”

“So, co-existence is the key after all?” the witcher asked, a hint of mockery in his low voice. “Never worked very well for you before. I thought elves wanted their own valleys and noble cities free of dirty _dh’oine_.”

“ _Th’alla vse a’yere chylis sa._ _There is no freedom in the gutter_ ,” Iorveth said, briefly changing to Elder Speech. “ _The old palaces will never rise again. The valley of flowers has withered_. Do you know what the human warden did to the palace gardens at Dol Blathana before the emperor ordered him to return the valley to Francesca’s elves? He burned it to ashes and smashed every piece of art. Thousands of years of cultivation and beauty wiped out in a few days. Nothing will bring that back.”

The witcher stared silently out at the water. The wind swept his pale hair over his face. “So you’ll settle for a corner of the dragonslayer’s city and hope her inspiring speeches protect you from the torches of your neighbors?”

“Dwarves out-number humans in Vergen ten-to-one,” Iorveth countered. “They are slower to start massacres.”

“ _Ciel fian’as el shae’en_. _And slower to breed_ ,” the witcher pointed out, using Elder Speech himself. “Within a few generations the human population will outnumber you all. _It is the way of things_.”

“Yes, they spawn like rats.” Iorveth scowled. “Perhaps the dream city will collapse in time. But do not underestimate Saskia. She is unlike anyone you have ever encountered. I believe she can bring together all races and classes. She is the last hope for my people to find peace.”

“Iorveth, is it possible you have fallen in love with a lowly human?” Geralt grinned at him.

Iorveth smirked knowingly. “You needn’t sound so jealous, witcher. Perhaps I simply share your predilection for strong women.”

“Ah, what have they told you about me?”

“That you are easily enchanted by sorceresses and keep them heartily entertained.” Iorveth shrugged. “I suppose we all have our talents.”

“Not just sorceresses.”

“Oh yes, barmaids and nurses and noblewomen and princesses…”

“And a vampire.”

“Really?” Iorveth was genuinely intrigued. “Did she try to feed off you?”

“He had given up blood, actually,” the witcher said casually. “He was a very kind man, or so Dandelion tells me. I can’t remember much about that time.”

“No wonder the _dh’oine_ call you a freak,” Iorveth murmured. He met the witcher’s focused gaze. “You hardly follow the conventions of polite society.”

“Well, I’m glad I have you here to teach me.” The witcher turned and leaned back against the railing to face Iorveth. “Perhaps the woodland fox can enlighten me in more than a few ways.”

Iorveth sensed a challenge and felt the muscles in his back tense. Danger and uncertainty barred him from responding to the witcher’s arrogant posture and assessing eyes. He kept his face cool and disinterested.

“You can start by improving your Elder Speech, for one,” he drawled. “You speak like a rock troll with a wart-ridden tongue. It offends my ears. Perhaps one of the women you saved would be grateful enough to endure it and help you practice.” He offered a mockingly trite bow. “Good night, _vatt’ghern_.”

“Goodnight, elf,” he heard at his back.

 

Geralt was cold and sore. His throat hurt, rasped by the smoke of the burning tower. He smelled of river scum and his hair dried stiffly against his skull. Yet he kept drifting back to the wide gape of Iorveth’s collar, his gleaming skin and the leaf tattoo trailing down his throat and over his collar bone, disappearing beneath his tunic, begging to be followed down and down. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed it, but every glance seemed to reveal a little more: the edges of branches, a pointed shape. He wanted to trace it with his tongue. Geralt shook his head, bemused. It had been a long time since such an impulse had seized him, and a vicious elven guerrilla was an unlikely object for his wandering eye. Then again, according to Triss and Dandelion, his great love Yennefer was certainly no gentle flower. Perhaps he was just drawn to cruel, dark-haired beauties.

For a moment he had thought Iorveth might actually be persuaded, when banter verged on flirtation. But no matter. The only thing he needed right now was a rug to rest on and meditate until it was his turn to take watch.

He climbed below deck and found Dandelion curled up near Zoltan, his wispy sighs drowned out by the dwarf’s snoring. The elves were sitting in miserable huddles while some drew together to sleep. At the head of the hold, Iorveth sat surrounded by his commandos, smoking a pipe silently as they spoke. When rain began to spatter through the ladder hole in the deck, he tilted his head to Ele’yas, who stood and closed it, sending the hold into darkness. Still, Iorveth glowed in Geralt’s widened pupils. The witcher knelt on a dusty scrap of canvas and closed his eyes.

 

Saskia never stood, but her presence commanded attention. Fine boned and fair-haired, she might have been a princess if you put her in a blue velvet gown. Wearing silver armor that revealed the dip of her cleavage, hair tied messily back with a headband, she gestured with her heavy gauntlets, neither maid nor warrior but both. Her control of the table was obvious, as was the fear reeking off her war council.

Only Philippa Eilhart, that old scheming sorceress, seemed calm. She peered out at the witcher from hooded eyes, two sleek, dark braids drawing a path to her own plunging neckline. Her deep rich voice sounded to support Saskia, assure the nobles that they could win.

When Saskia announced her secret weapon, Geralt was not surprised. Iorveth could hardly skulk in the shadows for long. He had a flair for drama and his entrance to the council certainly created it.

“You bring a war criminal to our assembly?”

“I’d die before I fight alongside a murdering Scoia’tael!”

“He’s slaughtered dozens of my horde!”

Iorveth stared them in the eyes. “They would have killed me if I hadn’t.” He had the fierce, unyielding stance of a victor, even when under attack.

In the end, Saskia placated them somehow. Perhaps they all knew it was inevitable. Skilled elven archers could mow down hundreds before Henselt’s forces even reached the walls. It would be folly to turn down their bows for the sake of grudges.

As glasses lifted in the circle for a toast, Geralt felt a faint glow of hope for this rag-tag infant nation state. Perhaps they could stand against the armies of the north and maintain their freedom. Perhaps Iorveth’s dream wouldn’t wither away.

But then Saskia’s goblet clanged hard against the table and she toppled like an axed sapling.

 

The night air stole the breath from Iorveth’s lungs. He found himself arranging a guard for Saskia, creating a roster for his commando unit to protect the comatose dragon. Cold settled in his limbs and stomach. Another dying future for his people.

The witcher was speaking to a dwarf about a route through the mines. Iorveth could hear scraps of their conversation but nothing more. Then the witcher turned and strode to Iorveth, eyes dark in the hollows of his face.

“We’ll leave for the mines tomorrow to get the immortalle.”

“Tomorrow,” Iorveth growled, “Why not now?”

“The dwarves insist on assembling a team. No one has used those shafts in many years. They don’t really know the way or what they might find. It’s better to be safe.”

“And save our own skins while Saskia dies,” Iorveth spat.

“She’s resting,” the witcher said, soothing. “A day won’t make a difference.”

“Very well. And the other ingredients for the cure? Maybe I can bleed Stennis for you.”

The witcher grinned. “Don’t be rash. We’ll get it in time.”

“What do you humans know of time?” Iorveth scoffed. “I’ve waited my whole life--more years that you can fathom--for this place and now I’m on the verge of losing it.”

“I’m not a human,” the witcher reminded him. “And nothing is lost yet. Come to the inn with me. Bring your people and come for a drink.”

Iorveth cocked his head. “Is drinking your usual coping method?”

“It generally makes life a bit warmer, temporarily.” The witcher shrugged. “Do as you like.”

Iorveth snorted and turned back to look at the two Scoia’tael barring the way to Saskia’s chamber. The thought of returning to the dark, empty house where they had stored their belongings to stew in his own thoughts was not appealing.

 

It shouldn’t have surprised Geralt to see the elves at the inn drinking with the dwarves, but the sight of Iorveth among them made him look twice. The low light of the lamps and fire burnished his face bronze. He met Geralt’s eyes and raised a mug with a wry smile. The elves were drinking cautiously, but a few had begun to relax and speak more animatedly, one was even playing dice with some dwarves.  When the elf across from Iorveth got up to leave, Geralt took her place at the crowded table. His appearance received more than a few uncertain stares, but Iorveth nodded at him.

“It’s not bad beer for edge of civilization,” he said.

“More civilized than Flotsam,” Geralt countered. “But I thought elves only drank delicate herbal wines.”

“We’ve learned to adapt.” Iorveth watched a pair of elves approach arm-wrestling dwarves. “There aren’t many opportunities to cultivate vineyards, press grapes, and sweetly age them when your entire civilization is being destroyed and you are fleeing to the hills to freeze in caves and dig roots for sustenance. Somehow we just didn’t have time for wine.”

One of the elves had sat to challenge the winning arm-wrestler and was currently sweating and straining against his grip. The dwarves cheered loudly and heartily. When the elf finally surrendered and his arm hit the table, the room burst into a cacophony. Geralt watched Iorveth tense and draw his feet in to rise, but the dwarves began clapping the losing elf on the back and smiles and laughter seemed to be winning the hour. Other elves sidled in to talk and dice and drink. Iorveth’s shoulders gradually relaxed, but he continued to watch. Geralt wondered if he was always on edge, always waiting for peril to strike.

“Perhaps co-existence will work after all,” Geralt said.

“With the dwarves, certainly,” Iorveth replied. “But where are the humans on this merry night?”

“They have their own conclave near the main gates.” Geralt shrugged. “Perhaps we need to invite them.”

“The inherent cruelties of _dh’oine_ are only enhanced when they are drunk,” Iorveth asserted darkly. “By all means, do not let us lead them to the beer.”

Across the room came a shout, “Geralt! Drink with us!” It was Zoltan, Dandelion, and Yarpin among a cluster of dwarves, already rosy-faced and jovial.

Iorveth leaned back as Geralt stood. “Thank you for your suggestion, _vatt’ghern_. It is good for us to let go of fear for a night. But we will retire before the revelry ends poorly.”

Geralt nodded.  “As you like. I’ll speak with you as soon as I get the immortalle to Phillipa.”

“Thank you, witcher.” Iorveth’s attention was back on the elves dicing by the fire.

When Geralt got to Zoltan’s table, a frothing mug of beer was pushed in his face. It was bitter, but strong and hearty, a pleasant break from the rancid piss served too often in Vizima.

Dandelion soon launched into a bawdy ballad that had the dwarves roaring. He sang the tale of the mermaid and the prince and their struggles with love and copulation. Geralt had to admit that he knew how to please his audience. Even the elves looked amused.

“Geralt,” Zoltan crowed, after the song finally finished, “We’ve made a bet with the squirrels that you can take down any one of them in the time it takes a pig to fart. They’ve issued a challenge, my boy! You must defend our honor!”

Geralt squinted at him. “What have you roped me into, Zoltan? I’m not going to start a fight with Iorveth’s commandos.”

“How about Iorveth himself?” Zoltan countered. “They’ve said he’s quick as a cat and you’ll stand no chance.”

“He would never agree to it.”

“Hey lads!” Zoltan shouted at the nearby Scoia’tael, “He’ll wrestle ‘im if your one-eyed fox isn’t too scared to have his hide pinned to the floor.”

The elves around Iorveth turned and spoke intently to him. Geralt couldn’t read his expression, but then Iorveth laughed and looked right at him. In a fluid motion he stood and pulled the bow off his shoulder.

Geralt set his swords aside, unbuckled his jerkin and stripped to the waist. The display of scars across his chest and abdomen never failed to intimidate. Iorveth looked him up and down with twisted smile.

“Make the elf take off his leathers too!” a dwarf demanded. The room was growing increasingly louder. Several dwarves pushed tables aside to make room in the center.

“Our witcher against the woodland scourge!” Yarpin trumpeted. “How will a squirrel fare out of the trees?”

A few elves were chanting something in Elder Speech that Geralt couldn’t discern over the other voices in the room. Iorveth unfastened the long line of his tunic and pulled it off his shoulders. Then he yanked his undershirt over his head and stood in his belted leggings and boots. His arms and chest showed lean, defined muscle. The tattooed leaves led down to the branches and trunk of a tree swirling with symbols that disappeared below his waistline.

Geralt met him in the center. His blood had started running hot with desire and the expectation of a fight, but he tried to keep a cool head. “We can just shake hands and they’ll have to deal with it. I don’t want any riots breaking out here.”

“Are you afraid?” Iorveth asked, a gleam in his eye, mouth curved to one side.

Geralt wanted him with a hunger like pain. He growled, “Only afraid of hurting your pretty ass when I throw you to the ground.”

“Worry more about your own,” Iorveth said, sinking into a crouch. “I don’t submit so easily.”

Geralt matched his position, flexing his arms to ready them. He felt like a wolf hunting a powerful elk, knowing it could kill him if he didn’t take it down immediately.

“It’s just a friendly match!” Dandelion was shouting, “Let’s all settle down…” The dwarves were standing on tables now, jostling for the best view.

Zoltan had appointed himself the round master and had a sausage raised like a baton. “Ready, lads? Three…two…one.”

Geralt sprang left to Iorveth’s blind side, tried to grab him low across the waist but Iorveth caught his arm and wrenched it up and back, fast as a thought, but not strong enough to unbalance Geralt who merely twisted to the side and wrenched free. Iorveth wisely backed away, bringing space between them again. He was smiling now, a mad-eyed smirk of anticipation. Geralt flexed his shoulders and smiled back. His arm ached and his blood was singing. Iorveth made the next move lowering his shoulder as he rushed, as though to flip Geralt over, but he hooked one leg around Geralt’s knee and pulled him off balance. He couldn’t quite force him down, so they staggered together, trapped in a hold as the room roared, Geralt pushing back into Iorveth to avoid toppling. Iorveth’s skin was smooth and hard to grip. Then the pressure on Geralt was suddenly gone as Iorveth dropped to his knees and used Geralt’s own momentum to flip him over his head.

Geralt had the control to roll to the side and evade Iorveth’s pounce. Now they were on the floor together where Iorveth’s strength couldn’t match his own. Still, Iorveth too was slippery and fast; it was maddeningly difficult to pin him down. They grappled and twisted, grunting with the effort. Every time Geralt caught him, Iorveth writhed free and immediately launched a counterattack which Geralt stopped by pulling him down again.

As it went on, Geralt found himself wondering how sore and tired he would be in the morning when it came time for the long trek through the mines. So when Iorveth wrenched out of his hold again, Geralt pretended to slip on the floorboards and cursed loudly, holding his wrist. He let Iorveth trap him on the floor with both knees, heard the groans of the dwarves.

Iorveth leaned over him, glaring, and hissed in his ear, “Next time you submit to me, it will be for real. None of this play-acting, _vatt’ghern_.” He stood quickly and let Geralt up. They shook hands. It was a diplomatic move, Geralt told himself. The elves needed something to lift their spirits and morale in the new place. Iorveth probably hated it, but he knew what was best.


	2. two

The elves made their home in the outskirts, taking deserted houses straddling mud and sludge. But just through a tunnel, there was a lake with a waterfall nearby and the elves often spent their leisure time there, lounging in the grass or swimming in the water. Summer in the mountains was hot, much hotter than the shade of the ancient forest in Flotsam. But the nights could be bone-chillingly cold. The elves huddled in blankets in the empty houses or slept near the fire. Iorveth shared the bigger house with four other Scoia’tael commandos. He had a curtained alcove to himself, but it was so cold that first night that he slept in the common area with the others. He thought he might not sleep at all in the unfamiliar place with his aching body and the weight on his chest that was Saskia’s fate. But he was exhausted through and through.

When he woke with the stirring of the other elves at dawn, there was much to do. They had to secure provisions and medical supplies and see about repairing and replacing weapons and armor. Iorveth pushed down his pride and went to Cecil, the alderman. It was another long day of wrangling, bargaining, and pleading for what his people needed. The elves had already gone to work, guarding Saskia, monitoring the cursed mist, and training on the walls. He could tell the dwarves were impressed, although they blustered as usual.

With nightfall, there was still no word of the witcher’s expedition to the mines. Iorveth retired to his house, smoked his pipe and listened to the soft murmur of voices. Rivian was telling the story of stumbling upon a nekker nest, which he exaggerated as usual.

The door opened and in stumbled the witcher, dark circles under his eyes and dark blood smeared on his armor. Iorveth strode to meet him and gestured into his alcove. They walked through the curtain and the witcher sat heavily. “I gave the immortalle to Phillipa.” He said. “Just three more ingredients to go.”

His eyes were fixed on Iorveth’s face, unblinking and unnerving. His gaze had a quiet intensity. Iorveth realized suddenly that his headscarf was pulled back and his entire face exposed, as it usually was here in his resting place among the other elves. The witcher was no doubt shocked and fascinated by the gaping eye socket and ropy red scar tissue. _Well, let him gawk then_. Perhaps it would finally put him off.

“What are you going for next?” Iorveth asked, offering him a flask of water.

The witcher took a long drink. “If I can find Triss and the rose of remembrance at the same time, I’d like to pursue that as soon as possible.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t taken off after her already,” Iorveth admitted.”

“Well, I knew where the immortalle was. I have no idea about Triss. I need to start seriously looking for leads.”

“I’ll tell my people to keep their ears pricked for any mentions of her and their eyes open for any signs.”

“Do pointy ears hear more than rounded ones?” the witcher asked, leaning back against the wall. His eyes closed briefly.

“These ears can hear your slowing breath and these eyes can see you are about to pass out. Please remove your armor first so that I don’t have to clean rotfiend guts out of my bedding.”

The witcher smiled slowly. “Will you undress me? I just don’t have the strength.”

Iorveth chuckled. “You should have gone to a brothel if you wanted special services.”

The witcher pulled the gloves off his hands and began unbuckling his chest armor. “I am working to save your queen, you know, you might show some gratitude.”

“Not my queen, my leader,” Iorveth countered. “And I prefer to show my gratitude in less intimate ways. We all know of your famous libido, but I’m sure you are not lacking for potential partners, even in the high mountains. A mutilated male elf is hardly your forte.”

The witcher shrugged. “I never found elven men attractive before. Elven _women_ are almost always exquisitely lovely, of course. But most male elves I’ve met look odd: narrow faces, close-set eyes… Yaevinn looked like he was constantly smelling something rotten and sucking on a sour apple at the same time.”

Iorveth laughed despite himself.

The witcher shrugged off his leather jacket and began pulling at his boots. “But you’re different. You have a sharpness, yes, but quite frankly you’re ridiculously good-looking.”

Iorveth laughed again, but rougher this time. “They used to call me the beautiful one, when I first joined with Isengrim’s squadron. They don’t call me that anymore. But I’d rather be known as a battle-torn warrior than Isengrim’s pretty pet.”

The witcher paused for a moment. “Was it a flaming arrow?”

“A spear,” Iorveth said. He still sometimes felt the mind-splitting pain and horror of it tearing across his face and into his eye. “But it didn’t kill me,” he said to the witcher and to himself. “It should have gone into my brain, but I survived.”

“If you believe in destiny,” the witcher said, “you were meant to live and fight, maybe for Saskia. You were meant to be here right now.” The confidence in his voice irritated Iorveth.

“And meant to fall into your arms?” Iorveth asked with a sneer. “Is that my destiny? I don’t understand you at all. Do you think you can master me, Gwynbleidd? Is that the appeal?”

The witcher closed his eyes wearily. “Is everything a fight? Can’t we just enjoy a little mutual pleasure?”

Iorveth studied him. “Fucking is always about power. Would you give it to me? Could you give up control and let me master you? Not out of some sort of obligation or fatigue, as you did in the inn, but out of your own desire?”

 The witcher shrugged. “Not tonight, I’m worn to the bone…but I don’t find the thought repulsive.”

Iorveth stood, seething. “Very well, I’m grateful that I don’t repulse you. I will be sleeping near the fire until dawn.”

The witcher sighed. “You stubborn bastard.” He laid down in the blankets.

Iorveth pushed through the curtain and glanced over the elves in the central room. They all avoided his gaze, so he knew they had been listening, pricking their pointed ears attentively. He went to the fire and took a deep breath to calm himself. “If any one hears or sees anything regarding the whereabouts of a red-haired sorceress, speak directly to me or the witcher. It may aid Lady Saskia’s recovery.”

The elves nodded. Socci looked like he was about to speak, but though better of it. Iorveth sat and watched the flames until he was too weary to think.

 

Geralt woke early and walked through the room of sleeping elves. No doubt they noticed him, but none stirred. Iorveth pulled an arm over his face but didn’t move otherwise. Perhaps subconsciously covering his scar, or just avoiding looking at Geralt.

 _Be patient,_ Geralt reminded himself. _The time will come. He is thinking about you._

Geralt didn’t always get the one he wanted, but he usually did. There was no obvious method or technique; people were just drawn to him somehow. Certainly, the exotic mystique of being a freak of nature helped, but there was no accounting for taste. Elves were known for being more temperate in their affections, but Geralt had bedded enough of them to know they were far from celibate.

Even as he was looking for a path to the gullies, where a dwarf mentioned he had seen a red-haired woman fall from the sky, Geralt encountered a proposition. Mottle, one of the elves he had rescued from the burning tower had set up shop outside the town selling food and herbs. She invited Geralt to share her bed and showed him a shortcut passage to the quarry. Geralt turned down her first offer but thanked her for her help and made his way down the rocky hillside.

In the gully he encountered a troll who led him to another troll who embroiled him in a mess of mercenaries. They had been hired by Sile, the sorceress from Flotsam who had lent him next to no help in slaying the kayran. It seemed she had it out for Letho and had ordered the mercenaries to kill him and anyone who he was with, which could easily have been Triss. After routing the soldiers and convincing the troll to give him Triss’ bandana, he returned to Philippa, only to learn that she couldn’t locate Triss immediately.

Frustrated, discouraged, and increasingly suspicious of the sorceress’ motives, Geralt returned to the inn where he could let off steam by punching people in the boxing area before retiring to his room. As he opened the door, he sensed a presence and immediately tensed. But it was just Iorveth, standing by the window with his hands on the sill.

“Witcher,” the elf greeted him. “I have been waiting some time for your return.”

“Climb through the window?” Geralt asked.

“It was good practice,” the elf returned. “We’ve gotten too soft since coming here.”

 _Since two days ago?_ Geralt thought. “So, did you decide to do a little reconnaissance, or are you here to play me a lullaby?”

“Lullaby?” Iorveth looked surprised for once.

“On your flute. The one you play with gloves on.”

Iorveth chuckled. “Were you impressed by my performance?”

“I was certainly intrigued. You know how to make an entrance. Not even Dandelion can play an instrument wearing gloves.”

“In the cold months, we learn to make do.” Iorveth sat on Geralt’s trunk and crossed his legs. “I heard you visited Phillipa again. Another ingredient for the cure?”

“Not yet,” Geralt said. “I found out what happened to Triss, but she’s still missing. She escaped Letho and some trolls but her trail went cold after that.”

“Philippa can’t locate her magically?”

“She’s trying, but says it takes some time. I’m not sure how much I trust her intentions, to be honest.”

“Sorceresses always have their own agenda. I know Phillipa isn’t here out of a deep and abiding love of freedom for all peoples and races. Saskia’s poisoning may actually work in her favor, seeing as she has taken the lead now. Phillipa has always only worked for herself.”

“Well, at least she shares your penchant for wearing feathers.” Geralt grinned.

“Go fuck yourself, witcher,” Iorveth said with more annoyance than venom.

“Which brings me to my original question: why did you sneak into my bedchamber, squirrel? What were you hoping for?”

“Calm yourself, Gwynbleidd. I simply wanted to volunteer my assistance in helping you find the most important component…a power source, I believe.”

Geralt sat on his bed and started pulling off his boots. “The locals have been telling me to visit the forest north of town. But I can handle it on my own.”

“You were right in saying I owe you for helping Saskia. I intend to make good on my debt. I covered your back on the prison barge and I can do it again.”

Geralt studied him as he unlaced his armor. “Won’t they need you here in the city?”

“That’s what delegation is for. I’ve set up a network and routines. My people can follow them.” Iorveth frowned at him. “Why are you so eager to undress in my presence?”

“Why did you wait around in my room where I come to undress?” Geralt pulled off his belt and laid back on the bed. “I was just joking about showing gratitude, you know. You don’t need to leave your work here to help me stumble around looking for a mysterious power source out in the woods somewhere.”

“Why would you joke about that? You know I take my debts seriously.”

“It’s called flirtation, elf. Maybe you haven’t encountered it before. I offered a jest to invite you to into my bed.”

“It was _my_ bed,” Iorveth responded dryly. His expression was calculating as he watched Geralt for a long moment. “I don’t have time for your ploughing games right now. There’s too much at risk for both of us to be indulging in base urges when war is on the horizon.”

“So you _do_ want me,” Geralt murmured, crossing his arms behind his head. “You just don’t have time?”

Iorveth snorted and stood. “I’ll meet you at the outskirts just after dawn. We can take the lake path to the woods.”

“As you like,” Geralt said, watching him leave.

 

 _Yes,_ Iorveth wanted the witcher. He could admit it to himself anyway. He wanted to push him down into the bed, straddle him and trap his wrists over his head. He wanted to wipe that smirk off the witcher’s face, make him groan and beg, make him lose his composure completely. Iorveth couldn’t even look at the witcher any more without wanting to bend him over the nearest object and fuck him into oblivion. Was it some mysterious pheromone? The witcher certainly smelled different from most humans: oddly herbal and grassy, like a field in late summer. Did he take an elixir to make himself irresistible? It was maddening, even more so that he was growing to actually like the mutant and enjoy talking with him.

However…a sheen of menace always hung over the witcher like the edge of lighting in the clouds. Those deep-set, slit eyes spoke of many dark years. They held a miasma of loss and death. If he had to imagine the embodiment of death, a grim reaper, it would be a witcher cloaked and silent, two swords on his back. How could one fuck with a reaper and come away without consequences? Iorveth had spent half his life assessing risks, and this was not one he could take.

The witcher looked pleased when he saw Iorveth waiting for him there in the outskirts. They passed through the tunnel and across the shallow end of the lake. The path wove between towering crags of rocks and grass to small glens draped in mist. The witcher paused periodically to check his wolf amulet which vibrated for danger and magic.

Iorveth pointed out tell-tale feathers littering the cliffside and path. Sure enough, a quartet of harpies descended to greet them. While the witcher charged, silver sword in hand, Iorveth pulled his bowstring taut and sent arrows into the attacking beasts. He felt a little sorry for them, as they were probably only defending their nests, but it was hard to reason with a furious monster. The witcher fought like a dancer, turning and slicing in smooth, quick circles. His speed was superhuman, Iorveth already knew, a byproduct of the mutagens and training, but his precision really set him apart from other fighters. He could gauge exactly how much force to put into each sweep and blow.

His skills became even more obvious when they stumbled upon a cadre of bandits. Iorveth took out the archers on the cliff while the witcher, changing swords, used a combination of strikes and signs to cut down the melee fighters. He aimed a blast of air at men with shields to throw them off balance then attacked with quick cuts. Iorveth took care of the ones coming for the witcher's back. He didn’t even have to unsheathe both swords.

“Perhaps it’s useful to have a partner in combat after all,” the witcher said, wiping sweat and blood off his face. “Just don’t get yourself in trouble. I don’t have time to waste rescuing people.”

Iorveth stared at him a moment, then laughed. “I’ll try not to become a damsel in distress. I know you never save them, after all.”

“That’s right. I’ll just leave you in the dust.”

They continued hunting the area for magic and searched a few bodies, slaughtered a few drowners, then finally found a path up the ridge to another harpy colony. This was a harder fight with celano harpies determined to protect their nest. Their shrieks filled Iorveth’s ears. He swung his swords into wings and chests. Feathers and blood choked his vision. Still they came, slashing at his arms and back. He felt claws pierce his shoulder sinking straight through the hardened leather. The witcher turned and sent a rush of fire into the harpy’s face. It screamed and released Iorveth, yanking him toward the cliff edge. He had to drop forward and cling to dirt and roots to pull himself up. Meanwhile, the witcher was battling the largest harpy for access to the nest. Iorveth found one of his swords and charged toward them. He and the witcher cut the harpy from both sides until she fell.

“How bad did she get you?” the witcher asked, wiping sweat off his face. “Can you move your arm at all?”

“Yes, it’s nothing,” Iorveth said, avoiding looking at the blood oozing through the rent in his armor. “Let’s search the nest already before more arrive.”

The harpy nest was a tangled mess of trinkets and baubles reeking of bird shit. They found a pair of calfskin gloves, an empty glass bottle, a broken silver necklace, and a crystal that the witcher’s medallion declared magical. He tucked it carefully into his pack.

They returned down the path to the tangled trees by the steaming pond. Evening was closing in and the witcher wanted to walk through the night back to the outskirts. “Not all of us can see in the dark,” Iorveth countered. He didn’t want to admit that his shoulder was in fiery agony.

As the witcher started a small fire under the trees, Iorveth peeled back his leathers off to examine his wound. The puncture in the front was not so deep. The witcher cleaned it with something from one of his little pouches and wrapped a strip of cloth over it. His callused hands were quick and efficient.

“How’s that?”

“Painful.”

“Just means you’re alive.” Firelight always leant a warmth to the witcher’s features that daylight did not.

Iorveth pulled his blood-stained shirt on. It was already too cold. He arranged his bedroll close to the fire. The hoots and squeals of night animals set him on edge. There was no Scoia’tael squadron to keep watch here. Perhaps they should have pushed on.

“I can sense danger during meditation,” the witcher assured him. “My medallion will wake me.”

Iorveth lay back and looked at the spangle of stars he could see through the branches. He listened to the witcher arranging his pack in the darkness. “Do you ever wish you had never pursued Letho?” he asked after some time. “You would never have lost Triss or gotten mixed up in curses and cures and Upper Aedirn politics. Did you really care about Foltest enough to track down his killer?”

The witcher sighed. “Yes and no. I was tasked to protect him and I failed. That’s a personal insult. Also, I have to find Letho to clear my own name, you know. There’s quite a bounty on me now.”

Iorveth turned his head to look at the witcher. “Why did you serve Foltest?” he asked after some time.

The witcher was silent for a moment. “Because he paid well. He wasn’t as repugnant as some rulers I’ve known. And Triss was his advisor.”

“Ah, it begins to make sense.”

The witcher chuckled. “I don’t always follow sorceresses around, despite what you may have heard.”

“You do have a pattern,” Iorveth pointed out.

“Triss is a good friend to me, one of the few I know and trust after my memory loss. I owe her a lot and she’s always been loyal to me.”

“A loyal sorceress? Well, you’re a witcher with feelings, so perhaps miracles can happen.”

“It’s a myth that witchers don’t have emotions.” The glitter of reflected fire illuminated his predator eyes. “I lost my memory but I know there were people who loved me. I tracked Yennefer of Vengerberg for some time. She was taken by the Wild Hunt. I remember looking for her, but I don’t know what happened after that. She was very important to me, I know, but I don’t remember why.”

Iorveth was intrigued. “And the memory of a feeling is enough to create that attachment again? Do you still intend to look for her? I’ve never heard of anyone being reclaimed from the Wild Hunt.”

The witcher looked pensive. “Perhaps not. But she may hold the key to my lost life. I want to at least know what was between us, and what happened to my ward, the girl Ciri, who trained to be a witcher.

“A girl witcher?” Now Iorveth was very interested. “Did she undergo the trial of the grasses?”

The witcher shook his head. “We never had her take the mutagens, they say. She learned to fight and use magic…but her fate is a mystery to me.”

“You have lived a rich life, witcher,” Iorveth conceded. “The Hunt is beyond my understanding, but I hope you find what you are looking for.”

 

In the morning, Iorveth rising woke Geralt from his meditation. The elf pulled off his shirt and inspected his wound. It hadn’t bled through the bandage. He walked to the steaming pool and washed his hands, then scrubbed his forearms and chest and armpits Water dripped down and darkened his leggings.

Birds sang raucously in the nearby trees, greeting each other in the early hour. The steam hovering over the water collected the first rays of sunshine. Geralt stood and removed his armor, then his shirt and trousers.

Iorveth turned and gave him a hard glare. “You just killed a couple of drowners not far from here. Do you really want to swim in this water?”

“This is a hot-spring pool,” Geralt said. “Drowners won’t stay here. It’s much too warm for their constitutions.”

“You could get a bath in a few hours when we return to Vergen,” Iorveth grumbled.

“Those tubs are too small, and you know it.”

“I’ve never used those tubs; we elves bathe in the lake.”

Geralt strode into the water, savoring the heat. “Then you should be used to a little outdoor refreshment. Trust me, you won’t find many nicely heated pools like this. They are only in certain places. Don’t miss this opportunity.”

“My bandage will get wet,” Iorveth protested.

“I’ll put on a new one,” Geralt promised him, falling back in the water. He looked up at Iorveth’s sour face. “Come on, don’t be a scowling Yaevinn. It feels fantastic.”

He splashed around, feeling the water ease old aches and pains. It smelled pungently of minerals. He looked up and was pleased to see Iorveth pulling off his leggings to bare his lean body completely.

“Five minutes and then we head back and give the crystal to Philippa.”

Geralt pretended that he didn’t hear and scrubbed water through his hair. He wore only his wolf medallion and his collection of scars.

Iorveth stepped gingerly into the pool, then embraced the warmth and slid in and under the surface like a fish. He emerged shining and beautiful, wreathed in steam. Water slid over his face, his neck, trickling through the branched of his tattooed tree. His wet hair covered his missing eye.

Iorveth met Geralt’s stare openly, but his face was so difficult to read. Geralt almost wished for the passionate, blunt Iorveth of Flotsam who said exactly what he thought. Geralt stepped toward him. The morning sun lit up the mist of the pool, wreathing the air between them in gold. Iorveth glowed like a woodland god. Geralt reached out to touch his face but Iorveth backed away. The little splashes of water against his skin kept playing in Geralt’s mind.

Geralt stood, uncertain. Iorveth didn’t break eye contact with him but slid back to the water and swam around Geralt lazily. Then suddenly he rushed forward and pulled Geralt down and under the water.

Geralt kicked and scrambled back to his feet blowing water out of his nose. Iorveth laughed and back-stroked away as Geralt lunged at him. Geralt grabbed his foot and pulled him back enough that he could push Iorveth down, minding his shoulder. They thrashed together for a moment before Iorveth slipped free and came up splashing Geralt in the face. Geralt chased him up the bank and out of the pond, caught him in the grass. It was easy to pull him down, too easy perhaps. His skin was warm and slick. They were grappling and panting, arms around each other. The scent of crushed grass and wet hair enveloped Geralt. He breathed into Iorveth neck, felt the answering shiver and gasp. Then they were rocking into each other, slowly and steadily, each movement a growing wave.

 

Iorveth felt drunk with pleasure, the world narrowing down to the pressure of the witcher’s body on his. They lay on their sides, arms grasping each other tight. The witcher was licking and biting his neck like a ravenous beast. His hands went to Iorveth’s ass, pulling him closer. The friction of their bodies sent sweet shocks through him, but it was not enough. He hooked a leg over the witcher’s hip and heard a groan. The witcher pushed Iorveth on his back and set one hand in his hair, the other on his side. He kissed Iorveth’s mouth deeply and fully, fingers tightening in his hair. He was all muscle, heavy and overwhelming. Iorveth gasped into his mouth, heard himself say, “Wait,” in a garbled voice. The witcher’s head came up. He looked at Iorveth’s open mouth.

“Wait,” Iorveth said. But he couldn’t think why. There was some reason he shouldn’t be doing this. Some reason they both ought to stop. But the witcher’s hips were still on his. His lips were red and wet. He smelled like water and sex. Iorveth pulled him down again, pushed the witcher’s face into his neck and moaned when the witcher sucked there, grabbed the witcher’s backside and urged him closer.

They were rutting like animals now. Iorveth found the hollow of the witcher’s hip and thrust until he lost himself. His back arched off the ground and he groaned a curse. It was pure bliss for a moment. The witcher got up on his knees and rubbed his own cock in rapid strokes until it spurted onto Iorveth’s belly. Then he smeared their seed together up and over Iorveth’s chest.

“Really?” Iorveth grumbled. “Are you marking me, like some kind of primitive ape?”

“Looks like we’ll have to wash again,” said the witcher with that wolfish smile.

They washed but it was short-lived as the witcher couldn’t seem to keep from touching him, kissing his back and shoulders and neck, stroking his cock. They ended up on the grass again, Iorveth straddling the witcher as he had fantasized, pinning his arms over his head, biting at his chest, then rubbing their cocks together in one hand until the witcher was bucking and hissing beneath him. He cried out when he came, shaking and electrified.

Afterwards, they were both loose-limbed and sleepy. The witcher wanted to simply lay there and hold him close, but Iorveth forced himself to get up and wash off a third time. He badgered the witcher into leaving by threatening to throw his armor and supplies into the water if he didn’t. But it was a slow journey back as Iorveth’s shoulder was hurting and the witcher seemed content to stroll along. Finally, they reached the outskirts of Vergen.

Philippa was not impressed with their find. “It’s the captured dream of a dwarf, not nearly powerful enough…but you are on the right track. We need the dream of a creature with immense power. There’s an old queen harpy nesting in the abandoned quarry. I’m sure she has quite the collection.”

The witcher looked crestfallen. “That area is inaccessible,” the he said. “I’ve tried.”

“The dwarves have a path. Convince the alderman to give you the key and you can find it.”

Iorveth touched his aching shoulder. Another, tougher harpy colony after what they had just gone through?

“I have good news and bad news for you, Geralt,” said Philippa. “I have located Triss on the other side of the mist. Unfortunately, it seems she is near Henselt’s camp. It will be difficult to retrieve her.”

“Can you get me through the mists?” the witcher asked.

“Yes, but I cannot offer further assistance.”

The witcher scowled. “Very well, let me know as soon as we can go.”

“Indeed.” Philippa looked at Iorveth who had been silent. “Will Iorveth go with you?”

“Yes,” said Iorveth at the same time the witcher said, “No.”

“He’s injured,” the witcher explained. “Also, Roche might be there and the two of them together are a disaster waiting to happen.”

“I spared his life last time we met,” Iorveth argued.

“Would he do the same for you?” the witcher asked.

Iorveth frowned. “Perhaps not. I have killed a number of his commandos over the years.”

“Exactly,” the witcher grumbled, “I have enough to worry about without keeping the two of you from butchering each other.”

 

Geralt was sitting on his bed, repairing a tear in his armor when Iorveth entered his room. He set it aside and stood to meet the elf.

“You should really lock your door,” Iorveth said.

“You should really knock before you enter,” Geralt said, hands going for the fastenings on Iorveth’s clothing. “I could have been naked, you know.”

“Only one thing on your mind, ever,” Iorveth complained, but he was already removing Geralt’s belt. “Do you really not want me to come through the mists with you? Those wraiths can be pernicious.”

“I’ve handled them before. You should stay here and heal.” He had worked Iorveth’s long leathers and shirt free and dropped them to the floor. Confronted with bare skin, he immediately went for Iorveth’s chest with his mouth, sucking at the swirls of the tattoo, then at Iorveth’s tightened nipples. Iorveth let out a shuddering sigh and tangled a hand in Geralt’s hair, pressing his face in closer.  Geralt pulled Iorveth’s leggings down to his calves and felt a pressure on the top of his head.

“Kneel, witcher,” Iorveth commanded, pushing him down.

Geralt went, to his knees, dizzy with lust and uncertainty. Iorveth’s flushed cock filled his vision and he could not recall ever doing this before. Still, it couldn’t be harder than eating out a cunt, after all. He experimented with a few long licks and got a gratifying gasp from Iorveth. He sucked on the head lightly. It was salty and hot. He felt Iorveth’s hand tighten on the back of his neck and he opened his mouth wide, taking in as much as he could, which didn’t seem like a lot, but Iorveth was panting and vibrating with each movement. Geralt thought about what women usually did, what he liked particularly. He wrapped his fingers and thumb around the exposed length that his mouth couldn’t reach and stroked in rhythm with his sucking.

Iorveth made a long sound and thrust into his mouth. It surprised Geralt for a moment, but he recovered quickly and adjusted for the motion of Iorveth’s cock. If he relaxed the back of his throat, he could take it so deep. Iorveth hand in his hair was a death grip, his eye was wide and dark as he stared down at Geralt, gasping with each thrust. Saliva ran down Geralt’s jaw. He watched Iorveth watching him, felt his own cock aching and straining for contact.

“Gwynbleidd,” Iorveth hissed, with obvious effort. “Stop now.”

Geralt groaned and released Iorveth’s cock. His jaw and throat were sore. His scalp burned from Iorveth’s fingers. Iorveth looked at him for a long moment. “Take off your trousers,” he said softly.

Geralt stood and complied, throwing his remaining clothing aside. “Take off your headscarf,” he told Iorveth.

If Iorveth was surprised by the request, he didn’t show it. He loosened the lacing and removed it quickly. Geralt sat on the bed and rubbed a thumb up his stiff cock, lust rolling through him. Iorveth bent and pulled something from his clothing on the floor.

“I thought that might be a new bottle on your belt,” Geralt said. “What have you planned for the evening?”

Iorveth walked to the bed. “I’m going to fuck you, witcher, and you’re going to love it.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Awfully confident about that aren’t you? Who says I’m the one to be tupped?”

Iorveth put a hand on Geralt’s forehead and pushed him back and down to the pillows. “I told you you’d submit to me if you wanted me in bed. Here we are.” He tipped the bottle briefly into his hand and slid oiled fingers up Geralt’s cock. It was exquisitely lovely. Geralt threw his head back on the pillow and let Iorveth massage his prick and balls, then slide a finger into his ass.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he murmured through a surge of desire and anticipation.

“Relax,” Iorveth purred, “I’m told witchers have a high tolerance for pain.”

Geralt chuckled and felt him add another finger. He’d been with enough adventurous partners to enjoy some ass play. He tried lifting his hips to help Iorveth find his sweet spot.

Iorveth withdrew his fingers. “Get on your hands and knees.”

Geralt complied, pushing his ass in the air and looking over his shoulder. “Is this how you imagined it, my lord?”

Iorveth smacked one buttock, almost startling him. Geralt felt his cock jerk as he drew in a quick breath. His skin burned and his heart hammered. Iorveth’s fingers were in him again, rougher and deeper. Geralt felt shocks of heat rushing up his spine, into his head. “What do you want, Gwynbleidd?” Iorveth hissed, his fingers jolting Geralt from the inside. “Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck me,” Geralt said, his voice uneven.

“What was that?” Iorveth asked, low and dark. “How do you ask nicely?”

“Fuck me, you son of a whore,” Geralt groaned. Another slap on his ass, another punch of desire in his brain. Geralt gasped. “Please, Iorveth, fuck me.”

Then the brief release of pressure, then the cool air. Geralt put both hands on long end of the bedframe, dropped his elbows to the bed, felt the slick tip of Iorveth against his hole, then a sudden, excruciating thrust. His face was pressed into the pillows as Iorveth slid in all the way, held him there. Iorveth’s breath was hot against the nape of his neck. He wrapped one arm around Geralt’s chest and pulled them tight together. “I’m inside you, Gwynbleidd,” he said roughly, “Do you feel me?”

It was all Geralt felt, radiating out from the core of him to all his muscles and nerves. He tried to speak but only groaned. Iorveth’s teeth scraped under his ear. His words were hot and thick, “I’m going to fuck you now, witcher. Are you ready?”

Geralt squeezed his inner muscles and felt Iorveth’s fingernails dig into his chest. The bandage on Iorveth’s shoulder scraped lightly against him. Iorveth began thrusting shallowly, loosening Geralt from the inside. Geralt moaned into the pillow, tried to push back into Iorveth’s cock. His blood was pounding in his ears. Iorveth rolled his hips steadily, pressing his face into Geralt’s shoulder. His mouth was open against Geralt’s skin and Geralt could feel each pant and shudder.

When Iorveth lifted his head and started to thrust in earnest, Geralt had to hold on for dear life. He gripped the bedframe and felt his body rocking and shaking like metal on an anvil. His hard cock bounced against his belly, screaming for release, but he couldn’t free a hand to touch it. Iorveth was hammering him with white-hot shockwaves of heat. He could feel himself melting and collapsing, sinking into the bed. Iorveth’s hand slipped down lower and encircled his cock. _Yes!_ Geralt screamed silently. It was almost enough friction…almost…

Iorveth snarled and bit him hard at the juncture of neck and shoulder. Geralt bucked, cried out and nearly went blind with the force of his release, feeling his entire body jerk and shudder and empty. Iorveth lowered him carefully to the bed and laid by his side, still breathing like a raced horse.

Geralt lay as limp as a dead cat. Every part of his flesh still glowed with lingering euphoria. As it gradually eased away, he began to feel the ache in his ass, the sweat coating his skin, and Iorveth’s seed sliding out of him. There was a wash basin by the door, but it took him some time to summon the energy to go to it. After a quick wipe down, he returned to the bed where Iorveth seemed to be drowsing somewhere between sleep and waking.

“Do you want a cleaning, my sweaty elf?”

Iorveth blinked at him. “Elves don’t sweat; we glisten.”

Geralt grinned. “Then may I wipe off your glistening body?”

“Very well.” Iorveth raised his arms and let Geralt run a damp cloth over him. But Geralt soon got distracted and left the rag on the floor, preferring to clean Iorveth with his tongue. He had been longing to trace that tattoo from top to bottom. Iorveth just sighed and closed his eye, but one hand played through Geralt’s hair and over the back of his neck. Fingers traced the swelling of the bite he had left there. Geralt felt a little jolt of lust go to his tired cock. He kissed Iorveth’s jaw, then his soft mouth. Iorveth acquiesced for a moment, then turned his face away. Geralt kissed the line of his scar up to the empty eye socket.

“Don’t.” Iorveth’s hand was yanking his head back.

“You don’t like kissing?” Geralt asked, intrigued.

“I don’t need you to try to convince me that I’m desirable by touching my torn face. And kissing is for intimates.”

Geralt leaned back. “I think we’ve firmly established by now that I find you very desirable. And how much more intimate could we be at this point? You were inside me, Iorveth.”

Iorveth sighed and rolled off the bed, going for his clothing on the floor.

“Really? You have to leave right now?”

“It’s late and my people will wonder where I am.”

“I’m sure they will understand if their independent adult leader spends a night away. Don’t you want to stay in a warm room with a real bed?”

Iorveth pulled on his leggings. “I’m not going to stay the night with you. Don’t try to make this something it’s not, witcher.”

“What is it then?” Geralt could feel his frustration rising. Why was everything so complicated with this elf?

Iorveth silently busied himself with dressing for a long moment. “I don’t know…” he admitted, “but it’s not like you and Triss.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Two good friends who watch out for each other and sometimes sleep together?”

“Well, not like you and Yennefer, then.”

Geralt stretched out along the bed and looked at the ceiling. “I don’t remember much of Yennefer, but I can promise I will never treat you like her.” He turned his face to Iorveth and gave his most convincing bedroom eyes. “Now come back to bed, just for a little bit. You know you want to.”

For a moment, Iorveth looked like he might, but he shook his head slowly and left.


	3. three

Six days passed before Iorveth saw the witcher again. He tried not to brood excessively on his own weakness and the folly of sleeping with the mutant repeatedly. The wild delight of the experiences had eclipsed his higher thinking and left him unable to summon any guilt. All he could do was occupy his mind in other ways and let the consequences follow, whatever they may be.

There was much to do. Iorveth inspected the patrol groups, assisted with archery training for the humans, inspected the weapons and armor they had acquired, consulted with the war counsel about tactics for a siege, and tried to put out any potential fires. He had hoped keeping the elves apart would keep them out of trouble, but it proved impossible to separate them from the other races in the city. There was a gambling dispute with some dwarves, a cat-calling incident with humans and some of the female elves that nearly ended in violence, and word that some of the commandos were sneaking off at night, no doubt to meet outside lovers.

As the days stretched on, he had to confront several hard truths. There were not enough archers to defend the walls in inevitable event of a siege. The human peasants training to fight were laughably slow and clumsy. The dwarves had courage and skill, but were melee fighters—only useful once the enemy scaled the walls. Iorveth found himself lying awake, stewing in worry, so he began to walk around the outskirts aimlessly circling the hovels. Or he would stay up late smoking his pipe while Socci spun a story, or play his flute for the gathered listeners. Anything to distract himself from the tempest in his head. Would they survive the war? Would they survive the peace? Would Saskia ever awake? Would the witcher ever return from the mists? Would he bring Triss Merigold with him? _And then, what?_

Iorveth pleaded, begged, and threatened Cecil Burdon, the alderman, for the key to the tunnel and the harpy colony, but he could not be persuaded. “You’ll have to find a magic crystal elsewhere,” he concluded. Iorveth had never done violence to a dwarf, but he was considering it.

He visited Saskia’s room each day and looked for any signs of change, but she slept on, like an enchanted damsel. Her pale hair streamed over the pillow, hardly moved from his last visit and her lips and cheeks were still full of color. Despite the various investigations and murmurs of witch hunts, there were no credible leads in the search for her poisoner. Philippa and the nobles could benefit from a power vacuum, but Philippa appeared to be truly looking for a cure and Iorveth hadn’t seen hide or hair of Stennis and the barons since the council. Perhaps affected by prejudice, he suspected a human. As superstitious, ignorant barbarians, they were the most likely to feel threatened by knowledge of Saskia’s dragon form. Unfortunately, there was no evidence to support his theory…or any other.

One night as Iorveth sat in his house, tallying records of the provisions and supplies to estimate how long they might last in a siege, the witcher arrived. The house was empty, all elves gone on patrol or other business. The witcher slammed the door shut and yanked off his gloves. He had a bruise on his face and scrapes on his wrists and no companion. Iorveth could see from his face things had not gone well.

“Triss was taken by Nilfgaard, right under my nose, dammit. Turns out Philippa’s apprentice was working for them the whole time. Now she’s fled as well and we’re left with no leads at all.”

Iorveth brought the witcher into his little alcove and cleaned the soot and blood off him with a damp cloth.

“I had her and I lost her,” the witcher kept saying. “She was so close.”

Iorveth dabbed ointment on a burn on his neck. “You’ll find her again,” he said. “You’re the white wolf, after all. And sorceresses are tough, very hard to kill.”

“I wanted to swim after that ship, but that fucking mage kept sending flame bolts after me. I hate fighting mages. They never stay in the same place.”

“They are quite vexing,” Iorveth agreed, brushing ash and dust out of the witcher’s hair.

The witcher caught his hand and guided it down to his face. Iorveth cupped the witcher’s jaw, looked into his eyes: slit pupils but not cruel, just hurt and hungry for affection. Iorveth gently stroked the side of his face, then pushed his fingers into his hair and kneaded the back of his scalp. It was no more than he would do for a friendly dog, he reasoned.

But the witcher put a hand to Iorveth’s back and drew him closer. They were kissing, Iorveth discovered, all soft pressure and warm mouths. He didn’t have the heart to pull away when the witcher was in such low spirits. Besides, it was just pleasant to lean into his body and revel in the luxury of his lips and tongue, the hard edges of his teeth. No sunlight reached the alcove, so it was dark and secret and safe. The witcher’s hands urged Iorveth closer to straddle his lap, and there was the delicious contact through fabric. Iorveth exhaled into the witcher’s mouth and lifted his head. The witcher started kissing and licking his jaw and throat. Iorveth felt his hips roll despite himself, felt the witcher’s hands squeezing his buttocks. He lowered his face to kiss the witcher again, drowning in honey and wine.

They managed to struggle out of their clothes and roll into the blankets.

“Your shoulder looks better,” the witcher said, touching the hardened scab.

Iorveth pulled him close. “It doesn’t pain me now.” He reveled in the slide of the witcher’s bare skin against his whole body.

“Do you still have that oil?” the witcher murmured, sucking on Iorveth’s ear.

“What did you have in mind?” Iorveth replied warily.

The witcher ran both hands down Iorveth’s back. “Anything you’ll let me do.”

Iorveth found himself arching into the witcher. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“Why don’t you teach me?” the witcher suggested.

So Iorveth did. He guided the witcher with his words and his body, telling him what he wanted, correcting him when he erred, and enjoying his focused attention.

When Iorveth was on his back and the witcher’s fingers were inside him, driving him half mad, he gasped, “It’s easier for you if I’m turned over.”

“Can’t we do it like this?” the witcher said in a rough voice. “I want to see your face. I want to kiss you.”

Iorveth tried not to roll his eye. The witcher could be annoyingly sentimental. “Very well. Get a cushion for my lower back.” When the witcher slid one under him, Iorveth adjusted it and lifted his legs. “Oil yourself well, _vatt’ghern_. I don’t have your healing abilities.”

The witcher’s cock was long and substantial but he took his time, slowly working into Iorveth’s body. Iorveth breathed deeply and tried to relax. It burned but the pressure excited him and the expression of raw hunger on the witcher’s face pleased him to no end. When he finally slid all the way in, the witcher was panting. He lowered his forehead to meet Iorveth’s. “ _Fuck_ , you’re so tight,” he breathed. “Feel’s fantastic.”

Iorveth bit his own lip, reveling in the intensity of the fullness. He hooked his ankles behind the witcher’s back and gave an experimental push with his hips. They both groaned and Iorveth felt the witcher pulse inside him. “You’re going to make me come like a virgin, aren’t you,” the witcher complained, rocking into him slowly. His eyes rolled back in his head. “Damn, it’s so _good_.”

Iorveth concurred. He wrapped both arms around the witcher and held on, fucking back into each thrust. The witcher’s cock was so deep inside him, each strike was sending him into another place. He was throbbing heat and light, sweat and skin, pain and ecstasy. They were kissing, he realized, messy and hungry. He pushed the witcher’s face to his neck and felt the shivery joy of his lips and teeth. But when the witcher lifted up higher, Iorveth’s back hit the bedding and he stretched out his arms to brace against the wall. The witcher started rutting into him with unnatural speed. Iorveth brought a hand down to jerk at his leaking cock and felt the rush of oncoming release. It rolled over and through him like liquid lightning, leaving him trembling with the echoes.

The witcher continued fucking him for a moment more before he groaned and came with a snap of his hips, burying himself as deep as he could go. He looked utterly wrecked as he pulled out and slumped over Iorveth. His weight pinned Iorveth to the blankets. And though Iorveth could easily throw the witcher off, he let him rest a little first. They were both breathing hard. The witcher’s face was pressed into the side of his. “You smell like me now,” the witcher whispered.

“Or you smell like me,” Iorveth countered lazily, blinking slowly. He felt as though he could melt into the earth. “Well, if coupling with humans is always like this it’s no wonder they breed like rabbits.”

“I’m not a human,” the witcher asserted, a smile in his voice. “And you’re not so bad yourself.”

Iorveth drowsily ran a hand up the witcher’s scarred back. “I like watching you lose control,” he admitted. “That’s why I wanted you at first. To see you completely lose your composure with me.”

“I like seeing you let loose too,” the witcher said. He stroked down Iorveth’s other arm and brushed a thumb over his wrist.

“I never lose control,” Iorveth said dryly. “I’ll have you know I’m always on alert.”

“Really?” the witcher hummed, “Not even when you were balls deep inside of me?”

“Did I seem like I wasn’t controlling the situation?”

“All right, how about when I was fucking you just now? You looked like you were having some kind of religious vision…or maybe possession.”

“Must have been your lascivious imagination,” Iorveth said, smirking. “I was just lying there thinking of battle strategies.”

The witcher laughed and turned them both on their sides to face each other. “I guess I’ll just have to try harder next time.” He smoothed Iorveth’s hair back and kissed his nose, his chin and his mouth. “I’ll get your attention eventually.”

“We’ll see,” Iorveth said, faking a yawn. The witcher gave him a long-suffering look and wrestled him to his back again where they tussled for a bit before the sound of a door closing made them both tense.

“Commander?” came Mona’s voice.

Iorveth pushed the witcher off him and reached for his shirt. “I’m here. What do you need?”

“Ele’yas was supposed to relieve my patrol, but no one’s seen him all day.” She stopped outside the curtain. “Are you busy?”

“I’ll be out in a moment,” Iorveth said. “Meet me by the steps.”

They dressed quickly but awkwardly in the small space. “Do you want me to delay leaving until after you’re gone?” the witcher asked.

Iorveth shrugged. “She probably scented you here already. And _someone_ will definitely notice you leaving.”

“Not an issue among your people?”

“I don’t try to make it one, but there will probably be some gossip. We have an understanding that it’s better and safer to be with our own kind. Not that I’m about to impregnate you, of course.”

“Likewise,” the witcher said. “And you’re safe from the pox with a witcher. We don’t carry disease.”

“Always gratifying to hear,” Iorveth replied dryly.

They emerged from the house together in full view of Mona.

“I talked to Philippa and I think I can bully Cecil into getting the key to the tunnels,” the witcher was saying. “I’ll let you know when I find the crystal.”

“I’ll come with you,” Iorveth insisted. “My wound is nearly healed.”

The witcher looked at Mona. “We can talk later.”

As he departed, Iorveth went to her. “Has Ele’yas done this before? I know he disappears at nights, but he’s far from the only one.”

She shook her head. “It’s the first time I’ve seen him miss patrol. I heard he goes out of the city at nights and walks the paths by the old village.”

Iorveth frowned. “Why there?”

“Mottle and a few others from Flotsam have set up shops and homes outside the city. Perhaps he goes to visit one of them.”

“Wraiths come out at night. He’s risking a lot.”

“At least he’s going to meet with an elf,” Mona said quietly.

Iorveth studied her. “Is there something you wish to discuss with me?”

Mona looked at her hands. “We’re not on the run anymore. We have a place to live and food to eat. Maybe we need to start thinking about future generations. How can we build a stable population without children?”

“A worthy goal,” Iorveth agreed. “But we are still in a precarious position here. It’s hardly the sheltered valley of our dreams.”

“Sir,” Mona began, “We will always have difficulties. But our women are strong and we want to bring life into the world. Any one of us would be honored to carry your child. You have powerful blood to pass on.”

Iorveth breathed out softly. “I appreciate your honesty and flattering assessment, but this is no time for making families, Mona. If Henselt takes Vergen, we will be on the run again. Please don’t take on any extra burdens.”

Mona laced her hands together. “There will never be time, will there?”

“We’re elves. All we have is time. Be patient.”

“And the witcher?”

“What about him?”

“Will he stay with us? Is he your companion now?” The subtle edge of mockery in her voice rankled.

Iorveth spoke tersely. “He is a friend who is helping us save Lady Saskia, raise the cursed mist, and defend Vergen. He assisted our escape from Flotsam and rescued our women from burning. He is to come and go as he pleases and have all our aid that he requires.”

Mona dropped her eyes. “Yes sir.”

 

Geralt spent the day preparing for the harpy queen: gathering materials for traps, and refreshing his bombs and potions. Haggard insisted it would take two days to finish all seven traps, which left Geralt with some time to investigate a murder mystery that Ele’yas had provided.

The first body, hidden in some bushes by the burned-out village, reeked of sulfur but provided no other clues. With night falling, he returned to the inn. The scent of roasting meat made his stomach gurgle.

He saw Iorveth drinking by the fireplace, outlined in the light. The front of him remained shadowed, but Geralt could see enough.

“I heard you got the rose of remembrance,” Iorveth said as Geralt approached.

Geralt sat across from him. “Philippa’s apprentice left it when she fled. The one silver lining in the whole affair, I suppose.”

“So, when are you getting the key from Cecil? We should get to the harpies as soon as possible.”

“I already have the key,” Geralt admitted. “Phillipa told me about the dwarf dream that we recovered. Turns out it was Cecil’s. Something he didn’t want anyone finding out about.”

Iorveth raised an eyebrow. “You blackmailed the dwarf?”

“Well, he could have given it to me the first time I asked. Anyway, I have some time before my traps are finished so I’m looking into some local murders.”

“Humans?”

“Yes, and others. Ele’yas tipped me off.” There are some bodies in the crypt I need to investigate, and maybe I can pick up a symbol of death while I’m there, to help with lifting the curse.”

Iorveth frowned. “He didn’t say anything to me about murders.”

“Perhaps he didn’t want to bother you. Witchers are best for this kind of work anyway.”

“Let me know what you find out.” He took a long drink.

“Have you had anything to eat yet?” Geralt asked, thinking of his own empty belly. Iorveth shook his head, so he ordered them both bowls of stew and they ate in silence for a while as the inn slowly began to fill with the evening crowd.

“Have you thought about getting royal blood for the antidote?” Iorveth said at last. “I assumed Stennis would volunteer, but I haven’t seen him at all since the war council.”

Geralt looked at his spoon sifting the contents of his stone bowl. “He’s a sly bastard. I still don’t know what his game is. He clearly thinks he’s above everyone here. What does he have to gain from siding with Saskia? She’s not going to make him king of the north.”

“Human politics have always been beyond my ken,” Iorveth said. “Perhaps that’s why they’re always taking us by surprise and killing us. First Nilfgaard uses us in battle, then they slaughter us. Letho asks my help to unseat the kings, then he plots to kill me. Do you wonder that I’m slow to trust, witcher?”

Geralt scooped another spoonful of stew and chewed slowly, looking down. The table was sticky with spilled beer and scored with the marks of knives. “How did you escape the massacre of the Vrihedd Brigade? Roche told me you were one of the commanders. Yet you’re here inside of lying at the bottom of a gorge with the fifty-three who were executed.”

Iorveth set his spoon down with a clank, face twisting. “We fought and died for Francesca and Nilfgaard, for the Valley of Flowers and scraps of our old kingdoms. And they rewarded us by delivering our heads on a platter to the northern kings.”

“To maintain peace after their defeat,” Geralt said quietly. “The Scoia’tael were and are deeply hated in the Pontar Valley. They were sacrificed to pay the price for Francesca’s dream.”

“It was our dream too!” Iorveth nearly shouted. “We never would have fought for her if we didn’t believe in a valley for the elves.” He sat back slowly. “But it’s all ashes now. Yes, I escaped that pit of death. I’m a survivor after all.” He touched the edge of his head scarf. “Perhaps you would say it is my destiny. I’d like to believe that I’m meant to be here, helping Saskia create a free and equal state for all races. But it may all be another broken path. I don’t know yet.”

“No one does,” Geralt said. The fire popped and crackled. Dwarves, humans, and a few elves were filtering in, filling up the tables. Voices and songs and laughter reverberated around them. Geralt and Iorveth sat without speaking for some time, then eventually went up to Geralt’s room.

 

The only time Iorveth could forget about everything was when he was in bed with the witcher. All his fear and anxiety and bitterness burned away in the force of blinding, consuming pleasure. Perhaps this was why so many turned to fisstech or alcohol to forget their troubles. It was addictive to lose himself, even for a short time, in the throes of base, animal desires. When they fucked, the world whited out and there was only flesh and nerves and rushing blood, Geralt’s moans in Iorveth’s ears and his own voice hissing curses and pleas.

Lying close in the afterglow, there was a sweet peace in his body. It was comforting to feel another’s skin, his heartbeat and his breath. At the same time…the witcher’s tenderness sometimes irritated Iorveth. He supposed Geralt was used to sleeping with women, softly kissing their faces, licking their nipples, and rubbing their ankles and feet. Or perhaps Geralt just was tender by nature after love-making, though Iorveth rarely returned his ministrations.

It still unnerved him when the witcher touched his ruined face, although there was very limited sensation in the scar tissue. It was even worse when the witcher kissed him there and he felt his chest tighten. Thankfully, Geralt never lingered on it. He seemed more than content to explore every other inch of Iorveth’s body. He traced Iorveth’s ribs and the bumps of his spine, sucked on his fingers, licked his wrists up to the inside of his elbows, nibbled on his neck. Iorveth wanted to joke that Geralt didn’t need food or sleep, he just needed skin. Well, it was not displeasing anyway, just strange. There was no need to dissuade him when his mouth was so hungry and clever.

It was easy to let the world fade away here, but it always came grating back. The door rattled, then the visitor knocked loudly. “Geralt! Why’s it locked? Do you have someone in there?”

Geralt groaned. “Dandelion,” he muttered. He wrapped a blanket around his hips, leaving Iorveth to scramble for his clothes. “Don’t worry,” Geralt said. “He’s not exactly a prude.”

“Maybe _I_ am,” Iorveth grumbled.

Geralt opened the door slightly and spoke in a low voice to Dandelion. Iorveth couldn’t see the bard but he continued to dress hurriedly. He heard his own name, but their voices were hushed enough that he couldn’t parse the conversation through the rush in his head.

The witcher closed the door and turned to Iorveth. “Don’t go,” he said. His big hands went to Iorveth’s sides, sliding under his loose shirt. “Just stay a little longer.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing important,” fingers tracing up his spine. “He just likes to stick his nose in everyone’s business.” Warm lips on his ear, nose brushing his hair, and it would be so easy to stay here, let the night slip slowly away.

“Geralt, it’s not—” he started to say. The witcher pulled back and looked at him with surprise evident.

“What?” Iorveth demanded.

“Nothing. What were you saying?”

“I was saying it’s not prudent for me to say here. I have to model good behavior for my people and be available in a crisis.” He was still studying Geralt for a sign of what he had reacted to, but the witcher only seemed inordinately pleased.

“Just tell them you’re staying with me. They can contact you here.”

Iorveth winced at the thought. It was one thing for the others to suspect he was fucking the witcher, quite another to inform them grandly that he was off to spend the night with the man, as though Geralt were some established mistress or camp wife. _Please direct all urgent correspondence to my darling’s abode._ Revolting.

“I’ve already dressed,” Iorveth said, twisting away from him.

The witcher sighed and released him. "I’ll speak with you after I return from the crypts and hopefully Haggard will have the harpy traps ready by then.”

“Thank you.” Iorveth set his bow on his back and walked to the door but then stopped and looked back with comprehension and amusement. “Did I excite you by using your human name? You ought to be insulted. ‘Geralt’ sounds like the belch of a toad. ‘Gwynbleidd’ is far more elegant. You should really start introducing yourself that way.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Geralt replied dryly. “I’ll tell Dandelion to switch it out in all his songs.”

Iorveth opened the door with a smile. “Pleasant dreams, witcher.”

 

Geralt dreamed again of the long, icy trek over the mountains following the carnage of the Wild Hunt. Yennefer, spirited away, lingered just out of reach: a cloud, a dream. She didn’t even feel real anymore, but he kept walking and walking, driven by the vision of her sleeping face and helpless body. He could walk to the ends of the earth—he _would_ walk to the ends of the earth, day after day after day. The pain in his body melded into one great pain in his head, his heart, his frostbitten hands and feet. But that was his fate: to bleed and fight and continually chase after the ones he loved and always arrive too late.

He woke reaching for another body in his bed, then drew his arm back to himself. The early light cast weird shadows on the cold hearth, the rough table, and the scratched floor. Reluctantly the witcher dressed and gathered his supplies.

The path to the crypts took him through the outskirts but he saw no sign of Iorveth. Some elves greeted him but others glared and muttered curses as he walked by. Geralt was accustomed to being the object of hate and let it roll off him like dirty water. In the forest, he passed the steaming pool and thought fondly back to that glorious morning, seeing Iorveth through the shining mist and rolling with him in the damp grass.

The crypts contained the usual bevy of vengeful wraiths easily dispatched with silver and specter oil. He found several bodies wrapped in white shrouds and spent far too much time examining them before he finally found the one he was looking for. The young man also smelled of sulfur, but his body was not as badly decomposed. Geralt poked around in his wound and fished out a splinter of metal—hardly the weapon of a monster. The wrapping also contained a book of poetry with a very familiar author.

After searching the remainder of the crypts and obtaining the standard of the Dun Banner from a very suspicious ghost, Geralt returned to town to question Dandelion. The bard was at his usual table in the inn, drinking and talking far more he should and quickly confirmed that his book had been stolen.

“A _succubus_?” he nearly shouted when Geralt told him his suspicions. “That’s my kind of adventure.”

“Just recite your poetry and stay near to me.”

The path to the burned village was silent and eerie at night, just broken shapes against a cloudy sky. Dandelion walked close beside Geralt, humming a tune to himself.

“We never see you anymore, me and Zoltan.” Dandelion complained. “You only spend time with the elves here.”

“Not the elves; I spend time with Iorveth trying to cure Saskia and break the curse.”

“Yes, but can’t you take a little time for drinking with your friends now and then? Is he really that good of a lay that you can’t spend one night apart?”

Geralt glared daggers at him. “Like I told you, it’s really none of your business. I’ll drink with you when Saskia’s awake and the curse is lifted and Henselt’s army is repelled. I can’t promise you anything until then.”

“Yes, well, what’s going to happen when Triss is back?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, with him…her…three’s a crowd. Unless all of you into that, which I highly doubt.”

“Triss knows that I take other lovers.”

“She may strongly suspect that you bed random women when you’re off working contracts, but that’s a far cry from knowing you’re dividing your time between her and an elf on the other side of town. Remember how she hated Shani? Triss isn’t going to just smile and nod when you trot off to Iorveth’s room. It’s not like you’re going to keep him a secret, right?”

 _Of course not_. Geralt’s head hurt. “I can’t think about that right now, Dandelion. We could all be dead in a fortnight. Just let me do what I need to do.”

“Yeah, sure. Just remember that a woman scorned is hell…and all that. Probably a murderous elf is even worse. I know firsthand how hazardous love triangles can be.”

“Yes, you certainly have plenty of experience there.” Geralt muttered darkly.

They had reached the center of the burnt village near the broken well. Geralt crouched behind debris and listened as Dandelion recited his seductive lines, listened to the sultry voice of the succubus and watched incredulously as the poet made his way directly to her lair.

Geralt arrived in the succubus’s room in time to see a blissfully unconscious Dandelion stretched on the bed while the succubus preened. She refuted his accusations of murder and blamed the deaths on Ele’yas’ jealous rage. Geralt looked into her dark almond-shaped eyes for any sign of guilt, but this was hardly a creature made for guilt or shame. He thought of killing her and taking Dandelion from this place, but then there was Ele’yas, the arrogant elf who had no particular reason to know of human victims or care enough to send a witcher after their killer. _Another worthless_ dh’oine _is dead_ , he heard Iorveth say.

He left the lair, cursing, and sprinted back to Vergen. Ele’yas was outside the inn, leaning on the stone. He looked up eagerly at Geralt’s approach. “Did you find the killer?”

“Perhaps,” Geralt grunted. “The victims were involved with a succubus who lives outside town. She was feeding off their energy.”

“Then you killed her?” Ele’yas looked far too excited to be innocent.

“She told me you killed them,” Geralt said, low and even. “You decided you should be the only one to sleep with this particular succubus. Pretty fucking stupid.”

“And you believed her? A monster who seduces men every day?” Ele’yas pushed himself off the wall and into Geralt’s space. “ _You’re_ pretty fucking stupid.”

“We’ll see,” Geralt responded coolly. “I’m still looking into the evidence.”

“You’re absolutely worthless,” Ele’yas spat, “a monster hunter who can’t kill a single succubus. I bet you ploughed her too.” He stalked away.

Geralt reached down and touched the pouch in his armor that contained the tiny metal shard.


	4. four

Iorveth woke when the door opened. Quiet voices. He got up and pushed aside the curtain. The witcher was there in the center room speaking to Faleyr and Socci intently. He gestured to Iorveth. Iorveth followed him out the door and into the silent street.

“I think Ele’yas is the killer that he sent me to discover,” the witcher said bluntly. “He developed an attachment to a succubus and resorted to killing her other lovers. In the end, he’s tried to blame the succubus for their deaths. But I’m almost certain he did it.”

Iorveth drew in a deep breath. “Any evidence to support this?”

“I found a bit of metal in one of the victim’s wounds. You should check it against Ele’yas’ blades if you can.”

Iorveth nodded, feeling numb. “Very well.”

It was all for naught, as Ele’yas was nowhere to be found and all his belongings were taken from his room. Iorveth reported this wearily to Geralt and saw the witcher’s lack of surprise.

“I have to return to Dandelion,” the witcher said. “I’ll spare the succubus until we can locate Ele’yas and determine what really happened.”

Iorveth nodded and went back to his bed where he lay sleepless for some time until the witcher visited again in the wee hours of the morning.

The look on his face told Iorveth everything he needed to know. “So, Ele’yas is dead, then.”

“I’m sorry. He ambushed me in the burnt village. I couldn’t hold back when he was coming hard at me.”

“Yes,” Iorveth breathed. “Seems he was guilty after all.”

“I don’t know for sure. I couldn’t find a blade on him with a chip out of it. Perhaps he was just angry…but he didn’t give me any choice.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Iorveth said. “Now go from here.”

The witcher looked pained. “I can speak to them.”

“No, go to your room, lock the door and stay there. I’ll take care of the fallout.”

After Geralt left, Iorveth sat and waited. It didn’t take long.

Rivian and two others came running to find him. “Ele’yas was killed!”

“I know,” Iorveth said quietly. “I wish to speak to everyone. Please gather all who are not on duty right now.”

When most of them had assembled in front of the big house, he spoke at last. “Ele’yas killed humans over jealousy for a female they shared. Then he set the witcher on a false trail. When the witcher discovered the truth and confronted him, Ele’yas attacked. The witcher killed him defending himself.”

Grumbles and whispers from the crowd. “That’s what _he_ told you,” one Scoia’tael said.

Iorveth steadied himself. “And for what reason should he lie? Why should he kill a single elf after all he’s done for us?”

Sullen silence for a moment. Then Socci said, “We know he has a hold over you.”

Iorveth bristled. “He has no such thing! I knew Ele’yas as well as all of you. He was brave and charismatic, but he was also egotistical, thinking himself above all else. We all know he was stealing out at night and leaving the city, missing patrols, shirking his duties. His conceit led to his downfall. The witcher has a right to fight to protect his own life.”

“So, you trust a human more than Ele’yas?” hissed Etel.

Iorveth stepped forward, setting his shoulders back. “I trust the witcher who has helped us every step of the way, though he gained nothing from it. He believes in Saskia and a free Upper Aedirn and has risked his life many times to advance our cause.” He scanned the assembled with his fiercest expression. “I swear that any misplaced acts of retribution will be met with sharp consequences. If he doesn’t kill you first, I will deal with you personally. Know this and show your understanding.”

Silence smothered the room. Then Mona lowered her head and the others followed suit. Some seemed on the verge of protest but none spoke out. “We trust you,” Mona said softly but steadily. “It will be as you ask.”

“Then it is understood,” Iorveth declared. “Be at peace.” They dissembled slowly, dispersing to their ramshackle homes.

He wondered if they were thinking of when he had decided their support for a different witcher and how Letho had used them and turned on them. Another poor decision that cost lives. He thought of the many Scoia’tael bodies littering the forests and rotting in dungeons, Ciaran tortured on a prison barge, Isengrim thundering into battle for Nilfgaard, and a tiny human child lying prone on the mossy ground with an arrow in her belly. Dead and dying faces floated in the bitter swamp of his mind but he didn’t have the time or luxury to wallow in a lifetime of regrets.

 

As if there weren’t enough issues with the elves, the humans revolted soon after. The following day, a mob gathered outside Prince Stennis’ quarters at the Castle, demanding justice. Geralt arrived in time to get a summary of their grievances. A cup-bearer had accused Stennis and his household of plotting to poison Saskia and the rabble had wasted no time seeking vengeance. Just as it looked as though the whole scene were about to descend into a massacre, Iorveth arrived with a squadron to keep the peace.

“The first one to raise a weapon will get an arrow through the eye,” he promised the seething crowd.

Geralt sidled up to him and spoke in a low voice. “Didn’t you once compare killing humans to pulling weeds? I’m impressed by your embrace of statesmanship.”

“Shut up, witcher,” Iorveth said. “Get to the bottom of this and figure out if their claims have any merit. I’m here to keep them from acting too soon but I’m not about to protect a poisoner.”

“I talked to Stennis just now,” Geralt said. “What a pompous bastard. I think he tried to bribe me. But he could just be scared.”

Iorveth’s eyes narrowed. “What’s this talk about a duplicate goblet?”

“A dwarven craftsman made it on the order of the prince’s priest. Somewhat incriminating to say the least. But Henselt killed the priest, so he can’t speak for himself. Whether or not Stennis was involved is up for debate.”

“But he refuses to give Saskia even a drop of his blood for the cure.”

“Yes,” the witcher frowned. “He keeps spouting bullshit about the privileges of royalty. It pisses me off.”

“King or beggar…” Iorveth muttered.

“One less _dh’oine_ ,” Geralt finished softly.

The crowd was growing louder and more peasants had joined. The nobles were backing away. Then suddenly Stennis emerged, despite the protests of his retinue. His gold armor gleamed in the weak light. His wide eyes were ringed with shadows.

“Why should a royal heir answer to commoners?” he demanded. “If any of you touch a hair on my head you will be punished by the gods themselves.”

The peasants roared. Iorveth tried to shout over them, but Geralt pushed his way to the center of the crowd and all eyes turned to him.

“Let us hear both sides speak and then we will better understand where the guilt might lie.”

The peasants trumpeted their unwavering loyalty to Saskia, and asserted that none of them would ever dream of hurting the Virgin of Aedirn. The nobles declared their prince was far too regal to demean himself with plotting and poisoning. The prince gave a stilted speech about his nobility and position that made Geralt grind his teeth. He looked at Stennis’ smug countenance and felt his own calm control slip away.

“You have given no evidence to defend yourself or show your loyalty to Saskia. Quite the contrary. You have denied her a crucial element for her cure out of your own pride. I cannot stand for you when you will not even stand for her.”

Geralt walked away and stood beside Iorveth as the peasants rushed in with stones and kitchen knives. He watched with rising nausea as they made short work of the prince in the golden armor. The nobles could only back away in horror. Geralt would never forget the sight of the shining plate metal streaked with blood, and his own hands reaching down to scoop the precious liquid into a flask.

“Serves the bastard right,” Iorveth said. “He thought himself too good for this world so he went on to the next one.”

“I still don’t know if he poisoned her for sure,” Geralt said quietly. “Do you think he did?”

“Almost certainly. Don’t second-guess yourself, Gwynbleidd. You didn’t kill him. There was no reason to protect him.”

“He wouldn’t even give her a drop,” Geralt repeated low and soft. “Not even after she helped him across a battlefield of wraiths. What kind a man is that?”

“A weed, witcher. Just a weed to be pulled.” Iorveth signaled to his archers and they withdrew from the hallway. “Don’t brood on it. One more component for the cure and we’ll have Saskia back.”

Geralt tried to pull himself together. “I’ll check if the traps are done. Meet me outside the gates and we’ll go for the harpy nests.”

Iorveth took a deep breath and shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t help you there. In truth, I must leave and get reinforcements before the battle.”

Geralt stared at him. “Now?”

“I’ve been looking over our defenses and pondering our numbers. Today’s incident has convinced me that this rabble will never stand against Henselt’s forces.” Iorveth glared at the peasants dragging Stennis’ body out of the hall. “We need more elves. We need the Scoia’tael that are still in the forests of the Pontar Valley, raiding caravans and villages. They should be given the change to fight for a higher purpose again, and their bows will bless these walls.”

“How will you get them through the mist?” Geralt’s mind was reeling.

“I’ll go south over the mountains,” Iorveth said. “I expect by the time we travel this way you will have lifted the curse and the mist.”

“It’s going to take a while to reach them and get them all here,” Geralt warned. “Are you going to make it back in time?”

“Just don’t start the battle without us,” Iorveth said with a tight smile. “I trust you’ll get everything right, witcher.”

“I think you have more belief in me than I do.”

“Don’t doubt yourself. You made the right choice with Ele’yas and also with Stennis. I trust your instincts. You’ll hold off Henselt until I return.”

The pressure of fear bore down on his head and chest. “Look after yourself, elf. Don’t do anything stupid and get killed before you can bring in the backup.”

“Likewise, witcher.” Iorveth’s features softened. “Don’t lose hope, Gwynbleidd. I will return.”

Geralt wanted badly to touch him, but didn’t. “ _Va fail_ , Iorveth.”

“ _Va fail_.”

 

The mountain trails were steep and winding, but Iorveth traveled quickly on his own, moving whenever there was enough light to see the path. He wished sometimes for the witcher’s slit pupils and cat-like balance on the treacherous path. He wished for sign spells and silver when the harpies and nekkers closed in. He often wished for the witcher to guard his blind side or cut down monsters as Iorveth sent arrows into them. It would also help to have a warm body to lie close to in the frigid mountain nights when a fire seemed to give little heat at all. He wondered how Geralt’s quest for the magic crystal had gone, if he had already killed the harpy queen and stolen her dream collection. Picking his way over rocks and running down gullies, Iorveth had nothing but time and space for thoughts, many of which he did not like. He tried to distract himself by identifying the plants and types of stone he saw, or reciting the names of the Scoia’tael commanders and as many of their subordinates as he could. The mountains were beautiful but harsh and lonely. When he finally descended into the green lowlands, he felt a breath of relief.

The first commandos he met were led by Sylera, an older elf with long braids and a pinched smile. She gave Iorveth almost half of her unit— “We don’t have enough food for everyone anyway,”—but refused to come to Vergen with him. Iorveth sent out the elves as messengers to the other commandos in the forest and within a few days had gathered nearly a hundred volunteers, including some commanders with their entire units. He had hoped for more, but over a week had passed since he left the city in the mountains and if the mist wasn’t lifted by now, surely it would be soon. Henselt’s army might already be on the move.

The gathered Scoia’tael had about thirty horses and managed to steal a few more. Iorveth considered taking boats but worried it would make them easy targets for disgruntled villagers on the banks. They found a compromise in a contingent of swift skiffs made by a Scoia’tael group that lived in caves on the river bank. They had enough for most of the warriors and needed a few days to build enough for all. Iorveth gritted his teeth and calculated the time it would take on foot versus boat and horse. Carrying supplies would mean slowing, but if they spent days making boats, it would also cost too much time. New skiffs that were not properly dried and set might break open on the river. In the end, Iorveth ordered thirty Scoia’tael to take the lead on horseback, scouting and gathering provisions for the majority who moved on foot. Elves with skiffs could also scout ahead and bring in fish for the rest of the troops. If they only stopped to rest for the night, the elves could make good progress through the secret trails of the forest.

They reached the mountain pass in four days, much sooner than Iorveth had expected, and found the mist dissipated. Iorveth felt a surge of fear and pushed the Scoia’tael on through the pass as quick as they could. As they closed in on Vergen, recent signs of the Kaedwani army appeared. The Scoia’tael ambushed some Kaedwani stragglers and demolished a cluster of supply wagons before retreating to the hills. Iorveth led them through the gullies to the enchanted forest and the tunnel by the outskirts where they rushed through the city and up to the walls.

 

Geralt sent a flash of Aard to knock an emerging Kaedwani soldier off the siege ladder. With his other hand he swung his steel into the helmet of the knight who was battling Zoltan. It didn’t quite cut through but it was enough to knock the knight sideways and send him clanging to the stone. Zoltan raised his axe to finish him off. The soldiers kept coming in a wave of crashing metal and hoarse cries. Despite Saskia’s rousing speeches, Geralt could sense the defenders’ weariness and despair in the force of the onslaught. Henselt had already barged his way through the main gates with the help of the seedy old mage, and his vanguard was entering the city. All Geralt could do was fight the men in front of him and try to protect his friends.

Just as another surge of Kaedwani began spilling over the walls, Geralt heard shouts and whoops go up behind him. He kicked an enemy soldier in the chest and looked back over his shoulder. A line of Scoia’tael elves had appeared like guardian angels on the highest wall. At their front stood Iorveth, looking a little grimy and worn, but radiating power. He raised his arm and signaled the archers. Instantly scores of Kaedwani fell like a row of wheat swept with a scythe. In less than a minute, the archers reloaded and sent another volley over the battlefield. Henselt’s men were dropping like flies even as more elves came pouring off the paths to set up position and ready their bows. Geralt felt like kneeling before them, so great was his relief and gratitude. The dwarves stared in disbelief, holding their stilled and suddenly useless axes.

Saskia shouted an order to close the gate and Zoltan rushed down the steps with Geralt close behind. Geralt guarded his back as Zoltan forced the gate closed, separating Henselt from his army and trapping him there. In minutes it was all over, the surrender issued, the king taken into custody.

Geralt joined Iorveth as he descended the stairs to the courtyard.

Iorveth flashed him a smile, “Admit it, you didn’t think I was coming back.”

“I’m very, very glad you did. You’re hellishly good, you know.”

“I know.” Iorveth turned to the elves behind him. “Mona, Socci, show our friends to our enclave and make sure everyone has a place to rest. I’ll work out food and bedding tonight.” They nodded and the multitude of elves filtered back to the outskirts.

Iorveth looked at Geralt. “Did you miss me?”

“Every day and every night,” Geralt breathed, close to his ear. “Did you think of me?”

“Not really,” Iorveth scoffed. “I’d mostly forgotten about you, actually.”

Geralt grinned. “That’s my pretty, prickly elf. Do you think you can get free later tonight?”

“Perhaps,” Iorveth murmured, giving Geralt a sharp, sweet stab of desire. “I’ll try.”

They reached the courtyard where Saskia and Philippa were negotiating with Henselt, or in reality telling him the terms of his surrender. It disturbed Geralt how coordinated the two women seemed to be, almost finishing each other’s sentences. There was an unnatural brightness in Saskia’s eyes as she calmly and firmly sentenced Henselt’s sorcerer to immediate death. Geralt felt Iorveth stiffen beside him, but neither of them could do anything as the mage was led cursing and snarling to a platform where a burly dwarf unceremoniously chopped off his head. Henselt looked shaken and pale beneath his bright red beard and oversized crown, but Saskia didn’t even blink.

“We will conclude our negotiations and summarize reparations at the conference in Loc Muinne,” Philippa said. Saskia nodded and followed Philippa up the stairs to her house as Henselt was escorted away.

“Something is wrong with Saskia,” Iorveth said in a hushed voice.

“She looks like she’s taken fisstech,” Geralt observed.

“I can assure you she does not indulge in that habit.” Iorveth frowned. “I’ve never heard her talk like that before. It was like Phillipa was in her mind, speaking for her. That execution without any trial…that’s not Saskia at all.”

“Let’s go after them,” Geralt suggested, “see if we can figure out what’s going on.”

They moved quickly up the steps, keeping Saskia and Philippa in sight, but suddenly a fiery-edged black circle opened near the top of the stairs, swallowed up both women, then disappeared.

“A _portal_ ,” Geralt said in disbelief. “Where the hell are they going?”

Iorveth sprinted up the stairs and into Philippa’s house. “Search her things. See if you can find anything telling.”

In the sorceress’ study, Geralt found a book of venoms and potions and quickly flipped to the page for the cure they had used on Saskia. It rapidly became evident to them that Philippa had manipulated them into helping her enchant Saskia for her own use.

“Bloody sorceresses,” Iorveth spat, “Always trying to control the world.”

“Then they’ve gone to Loc Muinne,” Geralt said. “Nilfgaard and Radovid and Sile will be there. Philippa can make her demands and use her ensorcelled dragon to enforce them.”

Iorveth’s head snapped up. “Dragon?” he said.

Geralt felt disappointment and anger rise in his gut. “Don’t. Saskia showed me her true form when she had to face the sorcerer in the tunnels. You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

“You must swear that you’ll never tell anyone,” Iorveth insisted roughly. “If the human peasants find out, they will try to kill her like a common monster. She is _not_ a monster, witcher.”

“I don’t hunt dragons,” Geralt growled, even more angry. “And the fact that you can even imagine I would betray you or her is incredibly insulting. You said you trusted me and I believed it.” He could feel himself choking on his rising hurt so he shut his mouth and looked away.

“I do trust you,” Iorveth said, voice lower now. “It was not my secret to tell, so I couldn’t.” He put a hand on Geralt’s upper arm. “You have no idea how much fear I have inside me. Sometimes it leaks out. I know you won’t say anything. Not even to Zoltan or Dandelion or Triss. But I’m always afraid.”

Geralt sucked in a deep breath and forced a smile. “You know, I really thought you were in love with some green human girl who was playing at being a virgin warlord. It all makes a lot more sense now.”

“Now that I’m in love with a dragon?”

“Well, those scales and pointy teeth are hard to resist.”

Iorveth huffed a laugh and put the book into his pack. “I have to get the newly arrived Scoia’tael settled and prepared for. After that I’ll meet you at the inn and we’ll come up with a plan for Loc Muinne. If we can get to Philippa before the summit, maybe we can kindly convince her to lift the spell.”

“Tonight, then.” Geralt cupped Iorveth’s face briefly in his hands. “I’ll be waiting.”

 

He was actually meditating when Iorveth arrived, kneeling on the wide rug. It had been a fierce battle, Iorveth conceded. His own muscles ached with exhaustion after the long, hurried trek to Vergen. But somehow the sight of the witcher rising eagerly to greet him provided a sudden invigoration.

They didn’t even speak before they were wrapped around each other. Geralt kissed the side of his face heavily and without finesse, one hand tight on Iorveth’s waist, the other on the back of his neck at the base of his head. Iorveth pushed both of his hands under Geralt’s loose shirt to feel his scarred skin and the hard knobs of his spine. Warmth and touch. He was already intoxicated with sensation and they weren’t even undressed.

“Damn, I’m _aching_ for you,” Geralt breathed, sliding his fingers under the headscarf.

“Then open your trousers,” Iorveth said. “That will help.”

Geralt laughed into his neck. They undressed as quickly as they could, but it was slow going as they both seemed particularly uncoordinated this evening. Iorveth found himself constantly distracted by the witcher’s movements as he struggled out of his shirt and fumbled with his belt. His muscled shoulders and smooth hips begged to be touched. Iorveth felt stupid with lust as he wrestled with his own clothing and almost tripped himself trying to get his leggings and boots off. Then he nearly gave up because Geralt was naked and proudly erect, stroking himself as he watched Iorveth.

“Need some help?” The witcher knelt down and tugged at Iorveth’s low boot. Iorveth braced himself on the man’s shoulder and felt a roughened hand run up his calf and thigh. With the boot removed, the witcher kissed his ankle, then the inside of his knee and then went for the second boot. His hands and mouth sent shoots of pleasure curling through Iorveth’s core. The witched mouthed the inside of Iorveth’s thigh making him shiver and catch a whine in his throat.

“I’m just too hungry to wait,” Geralt admitted, taking Iorveth’s cock in hand and sucking him into his mouth.

Iorveth’s head hit the wall as it fell back. He couldn’t possibly last long. His body was already shaking and bucking into the witcher’s hot, wet hold. Much as he wanted to fuck Geralt, he could only stand there and feel the wave rise higher and higher, then crest over him, obliterating his senses.

The witcher coughed and spat on the floor. Iorveth almost felt sorry for him. He seemed fairly new to cock-sucking in general. But he would learn.

Still wrapped in a haze of bliss, Iorveth sank to his knees on the floor, mirroring Geralt. The witcher’s mouth was red and swollen, his chin slick, his pupils huge with arousal. Iorveth slid two fingers between the witcher’s lips and over his tongue. Geralt sucked on them readily, eyes never leaving Iorveth. Leaning in, Iorveth licked the saliva and seed off Geralt’s chin, felt the vibration of his moan.

He withdrew his wet fingers and pushed Geralt to the floor. Geralt gasped and stretched out on his back. There was no point in preamble. The witcher’s cock was already stiff and red against his belly. Iorveth stroked up it with his left hand, feeling the witcher arch and gasp beneath him. He lowered his head to suck on the tip of it. With his right hand he pushed his slick fingers into the witcher’s ass. Geralt cried out and his hips pushed off the floor. Iorveth swallowed him down as far as he could, thrusting his fingers deep, curling and probing. The witcher pulsed into his mouth groaning broken sentences. “ _That’s just…fuck me…damn…like that_.” When Iorveth finally found the sensitive point inside him, Geralt lost his words entirely, howling like a beast. In moments he was coming hard and hot in Iorveth’s throat, nearly choking him. When his balls were emptied, the witcher felt flat to the floor, heaving for breath.

Iorveth swallowed and withdrew carefully. He caressed the witcher’s side from hip to armpit, then pressed his face to the witcher’s chest and drew in the thunder of his heart, the damp of his sweat, and the smell of his body. Grass and salt and earth. Human and not human.

“We should have done this on the bed,” the witcher said, voice low and raspy.

“We still have time before morning,” Iorveth murmured, closing his eye and breathing deep again.

 

It was good to wake up next to someone, Geralt thought. The life of a witcher was solitary by nature and he had few opportunities to spend the whole night with a lover. Living with Triss had allowed him this luxury for a short time, although she was often away for diplomatic trips and he for monster contracts. What would it be like to have someone fighting by his side during the day and sharing his bed each night? Not forever, certainly—nothing lasted—but for a time?

When he woke and ran his hands up Iorveth’s body, felt the elf curl into him, it was like a good dream. Still sleepy but rousing, they rocked together slowly at first, then more urgently. Geralt kissed his slack mouth and swallowed Iorveth’s sighs. He was so beautiful, it felt unreal to look at him. Every roll of his hips sang pleasure through Geralt. He reached between them and grasped Iorveth’s cock, greedily drinking in the sight of Iorveth’s face open in ecstasy. When he took them both in hand it was even better, the friction and the feel of him, the sounds they were both making. Iorveth’s fingernails dug into his back. He bit Geralt’s lower lip and came hard between them. Geralt’s own release roared through him immediately. It left him loose and sated as always, pressed tightly to a rather sticky elf.

After some time, Iorveth whispered, “We need to get up,” but made no move to do so. “It’s three days by boat if we have a good wind.”

“And then how many days through the mountains?”

Iorveth yawned and stretched like a panther. “Two if you can keep up with me.”

“You’ll be begging me to slow down, my dear elf.”

Iorveth smiled and let Geralt nuzzle his neck for a little bit, but eventually he turned and rolled out of the bed. Geralt whined loudly and Iorveth made a face at him. “Do you want to be the one to tell everyone we couldn’t save Saskia because we were too wrapped up in post-coital snuggling? Let’s _go_ , witcher.”

With a gusty sigh, Geralt swung off the thin mattress and busied himself with cleaning up and getting his gear together.

Downstairs, Dandelion and Zoltan were waiting to send them off. Geralt was glad that they had convinced Dandelion to stay and write the story of the battle for Vergen and keep the peace until Saskia’s return, but it was hard to say goodbye to his two old friends.

They chose a boat that was just big enough for the two of them, fast and open. They would have to sleep on the river banks at night, but they could make good time. The first day was the hardest as their boat zipped and bounced through the cascades. They made camp on a sandy beach, exhausted and damp. Iorveth slept like a stone while Geralt meditated through the night.

The second day they floated quite easily, although the river wasn’t running so fast and they expended some energy taking turns on the oars. Iorveth fastened a fishing rod to the prow and managed to catch a pair of fat perch.

When they made camp on a rocky bank, they fried the perch in bacon fat and seasoned it with fresh herbs that Geralt foraged nearby. Iorveth ate a whole fish and licked the savory juices off his fingers. It reminded Geralt of the dream in the harpy’s lair: Iorveth feasting in contentment and speaking the elder tongue. Such a simple wish, it made Geralt hurt to think Iorveth couldn’t have it.

“ _We are the remnants of dreams_ ,” Geralt recited, “ _torn by the claws of time. Now we wander this world, scraping at bits of old lives._ ”

Iorveth cocked his head. “Which poet is that?”

“Dandelion, believe it or not. He does have a few pretty lines now and then.”

“He’s an interesting character. I can’t for the life of me imagine how you two became friends.”

“I wish I could remember,” Geralt said. “Really, he’s more nuisance than anything, but he does have his moments, when he’s not trying to seduce everyone in sight.”

Iorveth raised his eyebrows, “Did you ever sleep with him?”

Geralt almost doubled over laughing. “Ah…no. I think I would remember that. I get the distinct impression that he’s only interested in the fairer sex.”

“Did you fuck the succubus?”

Geralt stilled as a chill sank between them. “No,” he said quietly. “Why do you ask?”

“Am I to believe that you, a witcher, turned down a creature with supernatural seduction powers?”

“Maybe I’m not into hooves,” Geralt said in a low voice. “What does it matter?”

“I don’t know,” Iorveth murmured. “It doesn’t, really. We know what we are.”

The river clattered on beside them muffling the sound of frogs singing from the crevices of the rocks. Geralt’s thoughts were in a muddle. He sat forward. “Did you fuck Isengrim?” he asked abruptly.

Iorveth gave him a twisted half smile. “I think you already know the answer to that. There were no great romances in my life, but youth is full of sweet illusions.” He poked a gnarled little branch into the fire and sent sparks scattering. “Do you remember the first time you coupled with a lover and thought the world was draped in lilies and honey?”

“I honestly don’t,” Geralt said, “but I wish I could.”

“How strange to wake up in a forgotten life.” Iorveth threw the stick in the flames. “Are you ever lonely thinking of all the people you’ve lost to memory?”

“Not really,” Geralt said gruffly, feeling his face heat and his eyes ache. “Are you lonely, Iorveth?”

Iorveth stared deeply into the flames. “No.” The fire crackled between them and bits of curled ash floated away. Iorveth stretched his arms and stood slowly. He went to his bedroll already laid out under a large old willow and took off his coat and boots.

Geralt got to his feet and walked to Iorveth uncertainly. His own bedroll was tied to his pack. He watched Iorveth unlace his shirt.

“It’s not so cold down here by the river.”

It wasn’t quite an invitation. “Yes,” Geralt agreed cautiously.

“Only a little over a month ago…I almost killed you,” Iorveth said. His face was covered in shadows. Geralt wished for a Cat potion.

“When?”

“That first time by the river. If your sorceress hadn’t raised a magical barrier, my Scoia’tael would have slaughtered you. Then, again in the forest after you killed the arachas. I was sure you were the bait in a trap set by Roche. Your arrogance infuriated me. I nearly sent ten arrows through your head.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“You asked me to spare Zoltan Chivay’s life. I’d never met a human who pleaded for a non-human. It was puzzling.”

“But it turned out Roche had set a trap after all, when we went to find Letho.”

“Yes, but then you gave me a sword. I could see you hesitate, and then you decided.”

“And we both lived.”

“Destiny, I suppose. Or perhaps you spared me so you could have me later.”

“I could say the same of you.”

Iorveth chuckled. “That wasn’t on my mind then.”

“And now?”

Iorveth spread his arms wide. “Come here already, witcher. Must I wait all night for you?”


	5. five

The rocky beach was hardly a comfortable place to sleep, even on the fallen leaves of the willow tree. Iorveth draped himself over the witcher so that he wouldn’t have any stones digging into his hips and back. The witcher was warm as summer and seemed very content to have Iorveth on top of him. He folded his arms around Iorveth and cupped the back of his head gently. The rising sun stirred them slowly, both reluctant to launch into the cold morning.

After a quick rinse in the water, they donned their armor, packed up and got back on the river. Dark clouds began to gather as the day rolled on. Occasionally they saw drowners crouched in the shallows, but the boat moved quickly enough that they never had to deal with them.

They reached the foot of the mountain path in late afternoon. With a few hours of day light left, they decided to camp under the shelter of the trees in anticipation of rain, to gather their energy before the strenuous climb through the mountains.

Mosquitos buzzed hungrily around Iorveth’s face. Thankfully, the witcher identified a plant they could burn in the fire to ward off insects. They sat near the smoke, Iorveth sharpening his weapons while the witcher heated alcohol and herbs to brew his elixirs.

He noticed Iorveth’s curious gaze and pointed to the little pots, “Swallow and White Rafford for healing, Petri's Philter for enhancing my signs. Don’t drink them. You don’t have the mutations to survive.”

Iorveth looked at Geralt’s strong, scarred hands and pondered the power in them.

Later as they curled together naked in their nest of bedding, he held Geralt’s hands in his. “Do you shape them and the power flows? No words or sounds required?”

Geralt let his fingers be manipulated. “I have to think the sign, push my intent. It takes energy and drains me quickly if I do it too much. It can really slow me down if I don’t pace myself.”

“Was it easy to master or did you set a few shacks on fire first?”

“I wish I could remember. I doubt it came naturally to me; few things do.” Geralt closed his hands around Iorveth’s. “Did archery come easily to you?”

“I suppose not, but it was a very, very long time ago. My memory isn’t much clearer than yours.” He leaned back into Geralt as the witcher massaged his palms. “I remember the first time I took down a buck in flight with a clean shot. That was a magnificent day. Now I mostly signal others to shoot.”

“You’re fucking gorgeous when you’re commanding, though,” Geralt rumbled near his ear. “Gets me hard every time I see you walking in shouting orders.” Fingers slipped up Iorveth’s chest and rubbed one nipple.

“That explains a few things,” Iorveth said, arching back against him.  The witcher’s cock nudged against his ass invitingly. He could feel himself falling back into the lovely place where nothing mattered except the contact of their bodies. “Touch me, Gwynbleidd.” The witcher’s hand on his cock sent pleasure rippling through him but it was not enough. “Get the oil,” he commanded the witcher.

Geralt struggled out of the covers and hurried to their supplies. By the time he had located the phial of oil, Iorveth was standing in the spread bedrolls, slowly stroking himself. “Give me the oil and sit down, witcher, against the tree.”

Geralt complied, nearly licking his lips with anticipation. Iorveth knelt before him and spread oil on his own fingers, slipping them inside his body to loosen himself.

“Let me,” Geralt said eagerly.

Iorveth shook his head. “Stay where you are Gwynbleidd. This is not for you.”

Geralt whined and threw his arms back, up against the tree. “Hurry up then.”

Iorveth straightened and grabbed a handful of Geralt’s hair, rapping his head lightly against the tree in warning. Geralt’s eyes narrowed but he shut his mouth when Iorveth crawled over and sat on his lap, using another handful of oil to slick both their cocks. A few strokes had them both on the edge, so Iorveth stopped and raised himself to ease Geralt’s swollen prick into his ass. It was no easier than before, but gravity helped and Geralt’s big hands on his hips steadied him. Sweat broke out on Iorveth’s face and chest. He was shivering hot from the inside. Geralt was practically vibrating against, him, his face buried in Iorveth’s neck, hissing soft curses.

Iorveth started to move in little pulses and the witcher met his motions eagerly. The slide of his cock was exquisite. When they picked up the rhythm, it sent him into another plane, riding each stab of pleasure to the edge of pain. The witcher stared up at him, mouth open and eyes wide. His hands slid to Iorveth’s ass, pulling him even harder down. He tried to catch Iorveth’s mouth, but Iorveth threw his head back, reveling in his power.

“Kiss me,” the witcher pleaded. “Come on.” He punctuated each command with a hard thrust that shook Iorveth with joy.

“No,” Iorveth hissed, vision blurring with the hot tide rising inside him.

The witcher slowed his motions with great effort, then stopped moving entirely, panting. “Kiss me,” he demanded.

Iorveth smirked down at him. “Fuck me, witcher.”

“Kiss me first,” Geralt said with a calculating smile.

Iorveth laughed softly. He squeezed his inner muscles and felt the witcher give a helpless little thrust. Geralt couldn’t win this standoff. Iorveth slowly raised up and then lowered hard onto the witcher’s cock. As he picked up speed, his thighs began to burn and his breath came hard, but he kept fucking himself until sparks of light filled his vision again. The witcher stared up at him, wild-eyed and panting, practically straining with repressed motion. When Iorveth reached down to touch his slick member, trapped between them, Geralt groaned and bit at Iorveth’s shoulder, finally losing control.

As he felt the witcher thrusting up into him again, Iorveth lowered his head and pressed his mouth to Geralt’s in a sloppy kiss. He felt a slick tongue in his mouth, then suddenly he was lifted up as Geralt pulled his legs under himself and flipped Iorveth on his back. Breathless, Iorveth could only brace himself on his arms, and let Geralt pound him into the ground. Violent pleasure ripped through him. His vision whited out. In mere moments he was coming hard against Geralt’s belly, without even touching himself. He slumped back, completely drained. His throat was raw and he realized he’d been crying out. Geralt drove into him thrice more, then shuddered and collapsed on top.

It took some time for Iorveth to recover his ability for speech. “You’re not very good at following orders,” he said between breaths.

Geralt’s voice rumbled into his jaw, “I like seeing you give orders. Following them is another matter.”

 

The rain held off until they had already started up the mountain pass, then once the terrain became more rock than dirt, the downpour began. Within minutes they were soaked. Geralt could only hope the oil cloth in his pack would protect his most important items. Even the harpies stayed home in the rainstorm and they made some good progress, unmolested by monsters. But then the path turned into a stream, slippery and treacherous.

Geralt finally found an overhang protecting a hollow large enough for them and their gear, but not enough of a cave to require searching for predators. They hunkered down in their wet armor and watched the rain fall. Iorveth took out his pipe and started to smoke, which was usually a signal that he didn’t want to talk. Geralt arranged himself for meditation and closed his eyes. Even as he drifted through the silence, his body was aware of the patter and trickle of the rain and the smell of the pipe and the solid presence of Iorveth seated beside him.

After a time, a melody threaded through his unconsciousness and brought him back to full awareness. Iorveth held his flute, carefully moving his fingers to adjust the sound. It was a different song than he had played in Flotsam, slower and melancholier, but still sweet. He stared out into the storm and played a few moments more before setting the instrument on his knee.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” Iorveth said. “Meditate some more. It’s still pouring.”

“I’m not sorry,” Geralt said, brushing his fingers over Iorveth’s lips. “I haven’t heard you play in a long time.”

“I haven’t had time for it,” Iorveth said, as Geralt leaned in to kiss him. Then, “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Why?” Geralt said softly. The smell of wet leather and pipe smoke lingered in the close space.

Iorveth was still and silent. Finally, he said, “It’s acceptable in the heat of the moment, when we’re fucking, but when you do it in times like this, it feels strange to me. I don’t want that feeling.”

“No one’s ever kissed you with clothes on?” Geralt teased gently. “Not in hundreds of years?”

Iorveth turned and scowled at him. “If I say I don’t want it, kindly respect my wishes, witcher.” His voice cut with the sharpness that Geralt was accustomed to.

“As you like,” Geralt said, leaning back and wondering to himself.

Iorveth shoved his flute into his pack and took up his smoking pipe again. Geralt slid back into mediation.

Eventually the rain stopped and they waited for the trickling water on the path to cease. Then it was back to the trail winding up the mountain. In a few places the path had crumbled or washed away and they searched out detours, sometimes climbing up steep rock face. Geralt went ahead and picked out the footholds. Iorveth followed nimbly after. They reached the summit just before sunset and looked for a sheltered place to camp.

Then the harpies emerged. A flock of four descended like a thunder cloud, looking bedraggled and hungry. Geralt unsheathed his silver and readied Aard to knock them to the ground. He sensed Iorveth behind him stringing an arrow in his bow, then saw it fly. The arrow took the foremost harpy in the eye and it dropped, shrieking in agony. The second arrow punched through another harpy’s throat. Geralt used Aard to knock a third harpy to the ground and trusted Iorveth to take out the last one as he decapitated the fallen monsters with silver.

They collected feathers for Iorveth’s arrows and talons for Geralt’s potions, then moved on. Further down the path a hollow in the rocks blocked the wind and afforded them a place to make a small fire and attempt to dry off. Geralt took off his gloves and chest armor and laid them near the flames. He felt Iorveth’s gaze rake over him as he lifted his perfectly dry shirt over his shoulders. Iorveth started to take off his gloves and Geralt said, “Don’t.” An idea was coming to him, looking at Iorveth fully dressed, something he had imagined for a long time.

Geralt stood and leaned against the rocks. “Where’s the oil at, Iorveth?”

Iorveth gave an amused smile. “You want to fry something?”

“I want you to jerk me off here against the rocks, in all your leathers. Then fuck me.” He unfastened his trousers and slid his hand down inside.

Iorveth stilled, mouth half open. “Yes,” he said in a strained voice.

 

It was annoying that Iorveth couldn’t feel the witcher through his gloves and jerkin, but the witcher’s reactions to the scrape of leather and buckles against naked skin sent all of Iorveth’s blood to his cock. He pushed the witcher hard, made him brace himself against the rock and rubbed the front of his body against Geralt’s bare back and ass, gloved hands caressing his chest.

Geralt moaned and gasped, pushing into his touch. When Iorveth closed a fist around his cock, the witcher thrust into it like he was running a race. He stood on his toes and pressed as much of his body into Iorveth as he could, letting his head fall back on Iorveth’s shoulder.

“You like that?” Iorveth murmured, roughing gloved fingers against Geralt’s nipples.

“You are incredible,” the witcher hissed. “I’m already about to come.”

“Is that what you want?” Iorveth asked, dropping a hand to run a thumb over the witcher’s cockhead. His own prick was straining inside his clothes. He might even be able to get off just watching Geralt fall apart.

Geralt shook his head, eyes unfocused. “Fuck me now.”

Iorveth loosened his clothing enough to get his very grateful cock out. He pushed the witcher back to lean over the rock and used the oil to quickly stretch him. Geralt lifted his ass and almost laughed with relief as Iorveth finger-fucked him. It was just enough for him to slide his cock inside, quick and firm, jolting Geralt into the rock.

“Yes,” Geralt hissed, leaning into his braced arms.

Iorveth didn’t start slow. He rammed into the witcher with all the force he had, making Geralt’s head bounce back. The witched groaned loudly and steadied himself again as Iorveth took up a punishing rhythm. The tight, clenching heat of Geralt’s ass was heaven, and the sight of blissful agony on the witcher’s face made his balls tighten with anticipation. Iorveth pulled one arm under the witcher’s and brought to up to grip his opposite shoulder, pulling the other man’s body flush against his own. He scraped his teeth up Geralt’s neck, hammering into him as he came, pumping seed into Geralt’s ass.

“Oh, fuck,” Geralt moaned. “I’m so fucking close.”

Iorveth put a gloved hand over Geralt’s straining cock. He used the other hand to pull the witcher’s hair, forcing his head back, and bit Geralt hard just under his jaw. The witcher howled and spasmed against him, then slumped into the rock, shaking.

Iorveth rubbed the witcher’s back soothingly, trying to convince his own legs not to collapse. “That was quite the intense fantasy, witcher.”

“Thank you for supplying it,” Geralt said breathlessly, chuckling. “You’re just lucky I don’t have a fetish for collecting harpy feathers and dressing up like a yellow chicken.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

 

Loc Muinne stretched below them, the crumbling remnants of a once great city. On the way down the mountain, they killed another flock of harpies. The old road, which Iorveth could remember being well traveled in his time, was empty apart from the traces of harpy colonization. They had cut down nearly a dozen of the winged menaces by the time they reached the main gates. Unfortunately, an entire company of the Order of the Flaming Rose had camped outside it.

“Weren’t you in league with them before?” Iorveth asked. “Maybe you could get through, though I certainly couldn’t.”

“I had a friend there once.” Geralt admitted. “He almost convinced me he was fighting for the right cause. But I saw his colleagues didn’t share his ideals, and the majority of them would slaughter mindlessly when given the order. I ended up siding with the non-humans, even though they could be equally cruel. At least they had a good reason to hate.”

“Hate can be motivation to live,” Iorveth said, looking down on the tents and banners.

“It can also be motivation to die,” Geralt returned. “Too many fools throw their lives away for the chance to hurt someone else.”

“Thank you for the sermon, witcher. Now are you going to take your chances with the camp or follow me through the caves?”

Geralt exhaled. “After you, elf.”

Iorveth scrambled over loose rock and Geralt followed.

“Whatever happened with your Order friend? Would he still speak for us if we get caught?”

Geralt thought of Siegfried’s tight mouth and deep-set eyes radiating pain and fury when he saw Geralt with the Scoia’tael in the burning streets of Vizima. He remembered smoke and far-away screams and Siegfried’s long, shining sword raised high.

“I killed him,” Geralt said softly. “He gave me no choice.” It still twisted and burned like a poison in his gut.

“His own fault for taking on a witcher,” Iorveth concluded. He climbed over a boulder and slid down a spill of little rocks. “Look out for endregas here.”

The entrance to the caves sloped down steeply, but the path was mostly free of debris. The cavern echoed with dripping water and reeked of decay. Pale scraps of old exoskeletons littering the sides of the path confirmed Iorveth’s warning.  Along the first ledge, they looked down and saw a familiar sight lurking at the bottom.

“Better let me deal with it,” Geralt said, chuckling. “I know you don’t like killing them.”

“I can kill one whenever I like,” Iorveth snarled. “I _told_ you, I was letting it guard my cave!”

Geralt unsheathed his silver and spread insectoid oil over it, giving a little to Iorveth, who looked impatient. They attacked the arachas as a pair with Geralt warding himself with Quen between blows to the front, while Iorveth cut into the monster’s back, aiming under the shell. It finally fell, but while Geralt was harvesting parts, a pair of endregas attacked.

One endrega backed Geralt into the cave wall, lashing at him with its sectioned tail. Geralt blocked its swipes but struggled to avoid the pincers. A curved sword spun through the air and clanged into the endrega’s side. The monster was mostly protected by its chiton armor, but the blow distracted it enough that Geralt could blast it with Igni and gave him the space to cut open the endrega’s maw. A few more blows finished it off and he ran to help Iorveth who was struggling to beat back the other one with his single remaining sword. Geralt used Axii to stun the endrega and as it wobbled mindlessly, they both hacked it to pieces.

The cave wound around to the outskirts of Loc Muinne where they emerged amid tilted rubble. Geralt had no idea where to go, but Iorveth seemed to know the place. He led Geralt up broken ramps and through ruined arches. When they reached the remains of a courtyard, it looked as though they might be approaching civilization.

Then the gargoyles descended.

Glowing and screaming silently, the stone monsters crackled under the hits from Geralt’s silver sword. He sprayed them with Igni and Aard, but it hardly seemed to affect them. He could only shield himself and hammer away until they exploded with a force that knocked him to the ground each time. Iorveth fared about the same. His whirling twin blades limited the gargoyle’s counter attacks, but seemed to deal poor damage. Geralt made a mental note to get him a silver sword at the next opportunity.

When all the gargoyles were finally reduced smoking shards of stone, Geralt leaned against a pillar and breathed deeply. Iorveth wiped away blood from a cut on his face. Slowly, they slunk into the city, checking around each corner for gargoyles.

Their caution proved rewarding when Iorveth spotted Redanian soldiers gathered in a broken room and gestured to Geralt to stay back. Peering through cracks in the wall, they watched King Radovid confront a chained Philippa Eilheart.

 _How did they catch her?_ Geralt wondered. _And how can we get to her?_ Radovid had been grateful for Geralt’s help once, but rumor said his mental stability had suffered of late. It certainly didn’t ease Geralt’s doubts when he saw Radovid order Philippa’s eyes gouged out.

Iorveth turned his head away as the soldier scooped out the sorceress’ eyes. She screamed and writhed, but afterwards seemed more defiant than ever. _What had she done with Saskia?_ Geralt wondered. Her dragon trump card was nowhere to be seen.

“We have to get to her,” Iorveth said. “If they’re still using the old dungeons, we can find our way through the sewers.”

“Sewers,” Geralt spat. “I’ve had enough running around in shit and slime to last me a lifetime, thank you.”

“Would you rather get captured by the Redanians and hope that you end up in a cell with Philippa after they take all your weapons and supplies?”

Geralt sighed deeply. “Lead the way, elf.”

 

Of course, the sewers were infested with rotfiends—red-skinned monstrosities that exploded, spraying rotten flesh, when you finished them. Iorveth mused that rotfiends weren’t so different from most humans: ugly on the outside and putrid on the inside.

Geralt and Iorveth hacked their way through, dodging and rolling to avoid explosions. By the time they reached the dungeons, they were both soaked in sewer scum in rotfiend juices. They made it in time to catch the Nilgaardian ambassador on his way out. Iorveth finished off his guards and Geralt knocked the ambassador against the wall as he struggled. The man went limp and fell onto Geralt’s arm.

“Are you planning to take a hostage?” Iorveth asked, looking at the unconscious man.

“He might get me to Triss.”

“We already have a prisoner,” Iorveth said, gesturing to the cell where Philippa stood, trails of blood streaking her face.

Geralt grunted and tossed the ambassador into an empty cell.

They went to Philippa and interrogated her on Saskia’s fate.

“She’s safe with Sile,” Philippa assured them. “She will obey all Sile’s commands. But if you want to lift the spell, you’ll need my help. The antidote is in my home and only I can get to it. We can get there through the sewers.”

Iorveth sneered. “How convenient. We escort you home and free you in hopes that you will actually keep your word and lift the enchantment you worked so hard to cast.”

“There is no other alternative!” Philippa cried. “You have me shackled in dimeritium. I can do nothing, as you know. I am in your power.”

“We take you to the house, then what?” Geralt asked.

“The dagger with the counterspell is locked in a chest. You must perform a ritual to obtain it. Only I can guide you through it.”

Geralt looked at Iorveth skeptically. Iorveth sighed and said, “Very well, we’ll take you there. But the manacles are not coming off. You’ve caused enough havoc already.”

“Saskia needs me,” Philippa said. “She inspires, but she lacks the necessary cruelty to make hard choices.” She nodded at Iorveth. “You know what I mean. Being a leader is not all speeches and feasts. Sacrifices must be made.”

“Shut up and start walking,” Geralt growled. He turned to Iorveth. “You take her through the sewers. I’m going to grab the ambassador and see if I can get to Triss.”

Iorveth’s eye narrowed. “I can’t lead her and fight off the rotfiends. You saw how many there are.”

“Well, you can’t stay here; what if more guards come, or Radovid?” Geralt ran a hand over his face. “Look, maybe we can save Triss and come back for Philippa?”

“And if I am moved elsewhere or executed?” Philippa hissed. “You’ll lose your only chance to free Saskia.”

Geralt looked pained. “Iorveth, you can get her through the sewers. I know you can. Wait for me at her house. I’ll find you there.”

Iorveth’s face burned and his hands tightened. He swallowed hard. “Witcher, you know I am the proudest and most contrary elf you have ever met. Believe me when I tell you I cannot do it without you. I cannot manage Philippa, the rotfiends, and the spells on my own. I need you.”

“Triss has been taken and tortured!” Geralt cried. “I’ve been helping you every step of the way, putting off rescuing her all this time. I _can’t_ lose another chance.”

“Saskia is a fucking _dragon!_ ” Iorveth shouted. “If Sile unleashes her on Loc Muinne, we will all be burned to ashes, including Triss, whether she is in chains or not.”

They stood glaring at each other. Iorveth felt as though his whole body was trembling with anger and fear. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “Help me this one last time, witcher, and I swear we will rescue Triss together. I swear it on my honor and my life.”

Geralt lowered his head, clearly agonized. “Let’s go then,” he said hoarsely.

Iorveth gritted his teeth. Gripping Philippa’s wrists, he pushed her ahead of him, down the stairs.

The way to Philippa’s house was thick with rotfiends—whole clusters of them. The witcher cut through them, rolling from one to another in an effort to avoid the painful blasts of exploding flesh. But there was little space to dodge in the narrow sewer walls and Geralt looked battered and exhausted by the time they reached the house.

Philippa directed them up to the roof where a large circle ringed with candles was spread. Geralt studied the diagram and lit the candles in the necessary order with little bursts of his fire sign.

“Unshackle me,” Philippa said. “I must perform the spell to open the chest. I need my hands.”

Iorveth frowned and looked to Geralt. Geralt nodded and tapped the hilt of his sword.

Unbinding the sorceress, Iorveth unsheathed one blade and touched the edge to the back of her neck. “Feel that, you treacherous hag? One wrong move and your head comes off in one clean blow. I’ve done it before.”

“Had enough posturing yet?” Philippa scoffed, rubbing her wrists. “I have no death wish. I’m just going to give you what you want. But I warn you, Saskia will always be more beast than human. If you can’t control her immense power to kill, you will be the victim of it one day.”

“Shut up and open the chest already,” Iorveth barked.

She moved her hands and chanted, raising the flames of the candles to streams of liquid gold. The lines on the stone floor glowed as well, making Iorveth think of the gargoyles. His heart pounded and his focus stayed on Geralt.

A huge form was slowly solidifying behind the chest. Iorveth’s pulse leaped. “Geralt!” he shouted.

Philippa took advantage of his distraction and sent a quick flash of electricity crackling through Iorveth. It blinded him with pain and he fell to the ground, writhing. She transformed into her owl form and took flight. Iorveth struggled to his feet. The circle was now enclosed in a cylinder of yellow light through which he could see Geralt facing a massive earth guardian crisscrossed with glowing runic text.

The golden light of the cylinder sparked and blocked a blow from Iorveth’s sword. He stood helplessly, staring inside. “Geralt, I can’t get through.”

Geralt, already dirty, bloody, and worn from battling through the sewers, rolled and ducked the guardian’s heavy blows. He swung at the creature’s legs and back, keeping out of the way of its fists and flashes of fire. He didn’t use many signs, which worried Iorveth. He could only stand and watch and shout warnings _. If he dies, I will see it,_ Iorveth told himself. _I will make myself watch him fall and remember It was me who pushed him here into this death trap._

But this was the witcher, after all. He eventually broke the guardian’s strength and sent it falling to pieces. The light of the circle faded and then winked out. Geralt cast his warding sign, opened the chest gingerly and pulled out a small dagger. “I have it,” he said. “Let’s hope the witch didn’t lie about this, at least.”

Iorveth felt weak with relief. “Are you all right?” he asked Geralt.

Geralt shrugged. “Tired,” he said. “Bruised. Maybe a broken rib or two. I’ll drink an elixir.”

 

They returned to the outskirts by the cave, where a clean stream ran. After washing thoroughly, they laid out their bedrolls and sat, exhausted. Geralt drank two potions and they put ointment on the wounds they’d suffered from gargoyle shards and rotfiend claws. Geralt dabbed at a cut on Iorveth’s chin. “Maybe another battle scar for you.”

Iorveth didn’t seem to have the energy to reply. He closed his eye at the touch of Geralt’s fingers.

They lay down together and watched dragonflies skip between cattails along the stream. Both exhausted, they couldn’t sleep. Geralt thought of Triss, shackled in dimeritium, wasting away in a cell. Were her eyes torn out too?  Was she despairing that he would never come?

Iorveth reached over and took his hand. “The summit is tomorrow. Sile and Saskia will probably be there. We have to find a way to get in.”

“It’s a big arena. We’ll find a way,” Geralt said, tensed. “I’m afraid I may need to fight Saskia if we can’t life the spell immediately. Sile will use the dragon if she feels threatened.”

“I know,” Iorveth said quietly. “Please, don’t kill her, unless your life is at stake.”

“Yes,” Geralt said, muscles still tight and stiff. His broken ribs throbbed insistently.

Iorveth rubbed a thumb over Geralt’s knuckles. “The Nilfgaardian camp is on the south side of town. Maybe you could bring me in as your prisoner, an escaped leader of the Vrihedd Brigade. If you insist on seeing me to a cell, we might find Triss.”

Geralt could have pointed out that he had a hefty bounty on his own head, and without a thorough disguise they would both be immediately imprisoned. Not to mention that the ambassador he had neglected to kill in the dungeon may already have alerted the garrison to their identities. But Iorveth was just trying to help and was willing to risk his own life for Triss and Geralt.

“Are you so eager to get tied up again?” Geralt teased gently.

Iorveth smiled. “Is that another fantasy of yours?”

“It could very well be. But maybe when I’m better rested and don’t have broken bones in my side.”

“You should sleep or meditate.”

Geralt exhaled heavily. “I can’t stop thinking about her. How long has she been waiting, wondering when I’m going to find her? I’m supposed to be this powerful witcher, but I can’t protect anyone.”

“You protected me and the people of Vergen,” Iorveth said. “Triss has more power than either of us; she will endure. After the summit, we will get her.” He squeezed Geralt’s hand tightly.

“I’m always making choices,” Geralt said soft and low. His mind buzzed with doubts. “Sometimes I make the wrong choice and have to fight harder. Sometimes I make the wrong choice and people suffer and die.”

“So do I,” Iorveth whispered. “What do we do with regrets when we live for hundreds of years, when they build up and fester inside us?”

“Bury them,” Geralt said. “Burn them and bury them.”

“Burn them away,” Iorveth murmured. He turned and rolled close to Geralt, taking care not to jostle his ribs. He kissed the side of the witcher’s face until Geralt eagerly turned his head, then kissed his mouth. They stayed like that for some time, Iorveth’s leg slung over Geralt’s knee and his arm resting across Geralt’s collar bones, hand holding Geralt’s face. They kissed without hurry, lips and tongues brushing, soft suction and shared breaths. A gentle lassitude filled Geralt as his mind emptied and his muscles relaxed. _Don’t think, don’t think. It will all be fine_ , he told himself _._ Iorveth threaded his fingers through Geralt’s damp hair, massaged his scalp.

Geralt tried to turn his body into Iorveth and stifled a yelp as pain shot through his ribs. Iorveth sighed. “Let’s give your healing elixirs a little time to work.” He smoothed Geralt’s hair and withdrew his hand, settling in close. “Sleep now.”

Geralt closed his eyes and drifted, smelling Iorveth and feeling his warmth. They could forget for a little while in this silent city, but he was sure they both knew there was no escape from regrets.


	6. six

The summit was a disaster from the start. Looking back, Iorveth couldn’t think of anything they might have done to prevent it. He and Geralt had tried to remain unobtrusive, shielded by some pillars at the back of the crowd. They watched as the mages made their case for appointing royal advisors. When Nilfgaard trotted out a bound Letho to incriminate the sorceresses, Radovid was immediately ready to incinerate all magic-users. The sneer in Letho’s voice as he related his story made Iorveth grimace.

Then Saskia disappeared, and he felt his stomach drop. The icy chill of impending catastrophe descended.

Sure enough, as soon as the Redanian soldiers marched in to arrest the mages, the dragon appeared on the city walls, roaring and spouting flames. Iorveth ducked behind a pillar and saw Geralt roll to the side. Saskia roasted the line of red-armored knights with a swing of her head. She curled one claw around Sile and lifted her into the air. In an instant, Geralt was on his feet, running for the stairs at the wall where Saskia and Sile had flown away. He cast his warding sign and tumbled through the flames. Iorveth tried to follow him but the fire was spreading and growing in intensity.

“Gwynbleidd, the way is cut off!” He shouted. “Get Sile and get out of there!”

The smell of burning wood, metal, and charred flesh filled him with nausea. He ran through the gate out of the amphitheater and circled the along the outside wall, looking for a ladder or footholds. When he finally located a set of stairs and climbed it with frantic speed, he found himself stopped at a deep gap where a large section of wall had crumbled away.

Iorveth screamed with raw fury. He could see the dragon circling the tower, punching holes in the walls, but he was too far away to help. The witcher was no doubt climbing to the top where he could catch Sile and use her to stop the dragon. But then the dragon alighted on top of the tower and Iorveth could just make out the form of the witcher, standing alone with silver sword drawn. Either he would kill her or she would kill him. _Everything ends_.

Iorveth scrambled down the wall and looked for another way up to the hill with the tower, but the streets of Loc Muinne were roiling with violence. Redanian soldiers were dragging sorceresses and sorcerers out to slaughter. Iorveth unsheathed his blades and cut down anyone who tried to stop him. Unfortunately, this attracted the attention of a group of knights who followed his flight through the streets and forced him to take a winding route through the ruins to shake them off.

Leaping over gaps in the rubble and sliding behind collapsed walls, he managed to crouch into a hiding place where he could watch them pass by and send a few carefully aimed arrows into the gaps of their armor. One unfortunate fellow had neglected to put on his helmet and got an arrow through the ear as a consequence. Another got an arrow in his eye, and a third the joint of his arm. That left two fully functional knights to charge Iorveth. It took some effort to dispatch them, but he was faster and had two blades. He kicked one in the knee and slammed the other in the head with the flat side of his blade. Unbalanced, the knights could not block his attacks immediately and he cut hard and fast, finding the vulnerable places between their steel plates. Then he killed the other men already injured by his arrows.

When it was all done, he wiped off his blades, using a bit of their banner cloth, smearing red across the fiery rose. He climbed up a pile of broken to stone to the wall and stood on top of the archway looking over the city. Little fires had broken out everywhere but there was no sight or sound of the dragon, only screams and shouts.

Iorveth picked his way back to the main gate—only to duck into hiding again as streams of black-armored Nilfgaardians poured through the city.  Chaos and death. Iorveth searching their ranks for a Triss, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Then at last he finally glimpsed her, far away: a flash of red hair and a striped shirt. He snuck along, shadowing in corners and climbing over ledges, until he found her again. She stumbled in the grip of the huge witcher, Letho, who had somehow escaped Nilfgaard himself. Iorveth ground his teeth. There was no way he could take on Letho single-handed. Not even Geralt had been able to best him when they fought in the garden of roses. Perhaps, if Geralt survived, the two of them together could take out the bull. But he had no idea of Geralt’s fate.

Letho took a seat by an empty cistern and motioned Triss to sit beside him. She looked battered and bruised, but seemed to have all her parts and was well enough to walk on her own. A smear of blood marred her lower lip and grime streaked her clothes.

Iorveth took a chance and left them there, heading back to the gates where he hoped Geralt or Saskia might enter. The street was empty now, except for a mage lying on his front with the back of his head smashed in.

Iorveth climbed to the top of the gate and looked down the road below. It stretched up the misty flanks of the mountain. He scanned the horizon and caught sight of a single figure climbing over the rubble of a break in the wall. It was unmistakably the witcher: a head of silver hair and two long swords on his back. Blessing the fates, Iorveth clambered down and rushed to meet him.

Geralt’s armor was scratched and burned, but he didn’t look seriously injured. He grinned, clasped Iorveth’s arm, and pulled him close, bumping a shoulder into his chest. “I see you got out of the fire.”

“But not out of the frying pan,” Iorveth said, looking over the city. He tore the question out of himself: “Did you kill her then?”

“No,” Geralt said said. “I injured her and forced her into flight. I thought she was about to kill herself when she flew into that tree, but she says her wounds heal quickly. The spell is lifted and she’s on her way to Vergen now. But I do have bad news for you, sorry to say.”

Iorveth’s heart sank. “What is it?”

“I asked her how she felt about you and she told me she prefers dwarves. I’m afraid elves are out of the question.”

Iorveth glared. “While you were chatting about my potential love life, I located your sorceress.”

Geralt turned suddenly serious. “Where?”

“In the cistern by the town center. But be alert. Letho is with her.”

Geralt surged forward and Iorveth had to sprint to keep up with him. They reached the courtyard with the well, breathing hard. Geralt’s eyes fastened on Triss and Letho. He took a wide stance, hands loose and ready to form signs or go for his blades. Iorveth took out his bow and readied an arrow.

To his great surprise, Triss walked away from Letho and straight to the witcher, unhindered. The bruises around her eyes swallowed the light. “He just wants to talk to you,” she said to Geralt. “He took me from the Nilfgaardians and defended me from the Redanians.”

“You wouldn’t be here in the first place if it weren’t for him,” Geralt growled.

“Easy there,” Triss said. “Don’t antagonize him and maybe we can both get out of here in one piece.” She paused and looked quizzically at Iorveth. “Is he here with you?”

“We’re helping each other,” Geralt said quietly. “Both of you, stay right here. Iorveth, look after Triss.”

“Are you sure you want to face him alone?” Iorveth said, reluctant to put his bow away. “I’ll cover you in case he tries anything.”

“He can probably block arrows,” Geralt said. “Just stay with Triss. He has things I need to know.”

“Don’t get yourself killed,” Iorveth ordered desperately.

Geralt strode across the courtyard and stood before Letho. They spoke quietly. They each took a swig from a bottle. Iorveth couldn’t hear what they were saying.

He surveyed Triss briefly. “Any internal injuries? Dizziness? Nausea?”

“I’m alright,” Triss croaked, looking drained. “No permanent damage anyway.” She eyed him in turn. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you here. Last time we met you were trying to kill us.”

“Yes…” Iorveth cleared his throat. “Thank you for preventing that. I had no idea how useful an ally Geralt would be for me.”

“He does make strange allies,” Triss said slowly. She stared out across the courtyard. “All the talk about witchers being neutral loners doesn’t apply to him. He seems to collect people as he goes, and then he goes crazy when he can’t protect them all.”

Iorveth watched Geralt and Letho. They were still talking calmly, positions unchanged. “We protect him too, or at least we try.”

“Yes,” Triss said. Her eyes on Geralt were indescribably sad.

Iorveth shifted and blurted without thinking, “Do you love him?”

“Oh…” Triss flushed and looked down with a wry smile. “Well, I just remind myself that he always goes back to Yennefer. Even now when he can’t really remember her, he talks about going to find her. No matter how many times they fight or are separated, it’ll always be the two of them in the end.” She blinked and met Iorveth’s gaze with a stronger smile. “But I’m happy just to have a little time with him.”

Iorveth set his bow on his back again. His muscles ached, his cuts and bruises throbbed, and he was very, very tired. Now that all the fear and excitement of the chase had faded, he felt empty as a hollow reed.

“He never stopped looking for you,” Iorveth said, still staring at Geralt. “He couldn’t sleep for worrying about you.”

Triss leaned against the stone doorway and touched the cut on her lip. “I worried about him too,” she admitted. “Yennefer was once taken by a powerful sorcerer and tortured, much worse than I was. Geralt charged in, even knowing this same sorcerer had nearly killed him once before. He’s reckless and doesn’t know his limits sometimes. I’m glad he didn’t get hurt or killed trying to save me.”

“So am I,” Iorveth murmured.

Geralt turned, giving half a wave to Letho, and walked back to Triss and Iorveth. “Let’s go,” he grunted. Iorveth exchanged puzzled looks with Triss but they followed the witcher.

The three of them walked silently out the gate and into the rocky terrain of the mountains. Iorveth waited for him to speak, but the witcher said nothing, face blank of emotion.

“What’s the situation?” Iorveth asked, tense and angry at the thought of Letho lurking somewhere behind them. “Do we have a plan?”

“Nilfgaard has crossed the Yaruga,” Geralt said at last. “Letho was working for them the whole time, sowing chaos in the north by assassinating the rulers and pitting kings against magic users.”

“You decided not to kill him,” Iorveth said darkly. He was seething at the thought of the king-slayer arrogantly planted in the middle of the city.

“He’s spared my life before and he got Triss out—despite getting her there in the first place. He helped Yennefer out of trouble too. He cleared my name at the summit.”

“You tracked him all the way to Flotsam,” Iorveth argued, voice rising. “He assassinated your king…remember? He killed Ciaran and Cedric and he plotted to kill me.”

Geralt’s face darkened. “Yes, he assassinated my king at the command of Nilfgaard, and _you helped_. Letho didn’t kill Ciaran, although he should have. Ciaran allowed me to convince you of Letho’s betrayal. We would never have joined forces otherwise. If Letho cut down your elves on his way to his goal, he did no worse than you have.”

Iorveth stilled, resisting the urge to lash out. “You’re right, witcher. I am a killer and I did plot to murder your king. I have no right to pass judgement on others. But I would have finished him all the same. A man like that it a viper at your back.”

“You would have finished with a steel sword through your handsome face,” Geralt said gruffly. “You’re good, but you don’t have witcher reflexes and we both know it.”

“Is that why you kept me back?” Iorveth’s anger receded slowly, as he recognized Geralt’s reasoning.

“That’s why I kept both of you back,” Geralt said, looking between Iorveth and Triss. “Even with the three of us in top shape working together, he could still finish off at least one of us off before we took him down. It wasn’t worth the risk.”

“Did he help you with your memories?” Triss asked quietly. “Does he know where Yennefer is?”

“In Nilfgaard, last time Letho saw her. I guess I’ll be heading south after I see you to safety and find a medic.”

“I’m fine, Geralt,” Triss insisted. “I may be moving a little slower than usual, but after a hot bath, I’ll be nearly recovered.”

“You look like hell,” Geralt said touching her face tenderly. “It may be a while before you get a hot bath. We’ll try to find an inn on the way. Where do you want to go?”

“Come to Vergen,” Iorveth interjected. “There are healers among the elves. We could use a decent sorceress since the last one proved a rotten egg.”

“Thank you, but as I said, my injuries are not severe,” Triss asserted firmly. “I’d like to return to Velen. I have friends in Oxenfurt and Novigrad. If Radovid is the new power in the north, we need to prepare for reprisals against magic users.”

Geralt nodded. “I’ll take you there on my way south. If Yennefer is still in Nilfgaard, it will be quite the quest to get to her. Maybe with her help, I’ll find Ciri too.” He looked at Iorveth hopefully. “Feeling like an adventure?”

A cold river flooded Iorveth’s chest. “Yes... but Vergen needs me. The Scoia’tael are still finding their feet and peaceful co-existence won’t come easily. Saskia will need all the support she can get.”

Geralt’s smile faded. “Well, she’s lucky to have you backing her up.” A beat of silence stretched between them. Geralt’s shoulders dropped and his mouth twisted. “I suppose this is where we part ways, then. Not going to ask me to come to Vergen with you?”

Iorveth felt his calm facade cracking and breaking. “Would you, if I did?”

“No,” a quick breath. Geralt’s jaw clenched briefly. “I’ve spent too long searching for Yennefer and Ciri and too many pieces of me are still missing. I have to find the truth. You know.”

“I know.” A clawing ache like loss scraped through him. _Burn it and bury it,_ he told himself.

The wind whipped smoke and ash from the fires of Loc Muinne into the cold mountain air like a snow storm. Triss looked between them but said nothing. Finally, Geralt stepped forward into Iorveth’s space, eyes fierce and bright. The tendons in his neck stood out as he swallowed hard. “We’ll…”

Iorveth couldn’t move.

“We’ll meet again, somewhere, I know,” Geralt promised in a rough voice, putting an arm around Iorveth’s shoulders and drawing him close again, one last time. Geralt’s mouth pressed briefly against the cloth over Iorveth’s empty eye. “ _Va fail_ , Iorveth.

“ _Va fail_ , Gwynbleidd.” It was little more than a whisper because his throat was full and constricted.

Geralt picked up his pack and walked back to a silent Triss. She looked back once at Iorveth, perhaps wondering if she should say a farewell, but the stricken look on his face must have dissuaded her. She strode on beside the witcher as they moved away, just two odd humans descending the mountainside: the deadly silver wolf and the girlish sorceress who was said to be his weakness. Far from Flotsam but still together.

Iorveth watched them move further and further away, the witcher’s broad shoulders crossed with two blades growing smaller in the distance. He turned at looked toward his own destination and finally began to move. It was a long road to Vergen. The vast expanse of the mountains stretched before him, cold and endless. He shouldered his pack and started the journey home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Epilogue

The streets were bustling on this side of Novigrad but there were few non-humans, so Iorveth stayed in the shadows and kept his hood pulled up to cover his ears and his head scarf. Unlikely anyone here in the free city would recognize a fugitive from backwater Flotsam, but he didn’t like to take risks. He’d heard rumors and now he was close to the trail of his quarry, tracking the man to an affluent neighborhood and a ransacked house. He took a position near the front door, hidden by shrubbery, and waited.

After about twenty minutes, a familiar figure emerged: Geralt of Rivia in black mail armor, flipping through some loose papers. His sharp eyes picked out Iorveth immediately and his eyebrows shot up in astonishment.

Iorveth emerged, dropping his hood. “You grew a beard,” he said.

“You look the same,” Geralt said, touching his face lightly. “No new battle scars.” Then he folded Iorveth into a tight embrace, mindless of the passersby.

Trapped against him, Iorveth struggled with a flood of painful emotions. “Raiding houses now?” he asked in an uneven voice.

Geralt pulled back and grinned ruefully. “Actually, I’m looking for Triss. She used to live here, but apparently, she left in a hurry. Witch hunters are everywhere these days.”

“Always losing your sorceresses,” Iorveth complained. “You should put bells on them or something.”

“Thank you for the suggestion. I did find Yennefer, you know, for all the good it did me. Now I’m just looking for Ciri.”

“And Triss,” Iorveth pointed out.

Geralt shifted from one foot to the other expectantly, “Well, are you going to offer to help me?”

Iorveth tilted his head. “Maybe I have my own agenda to pursue. You haven’t even asked why I’m in Novigrad.”

“I figured you’d tell me when you felt like it.”

“It’s a long story.” Iorveth smirked at him.

Geralt looked distractedly at Iorveth’s neck. “I have time. There’s an inn not far from here, I can get a room if you want a quiet place to sit and talk.”

“Yes, Geralt, let’s get a room and sit and _talk_ ,” Iorveth drawled, bringing a hand up to stroke the tattooed leaves on his throat where the witcher’s eyes were fastened.

As they moved to the street, a part of him warned against this, prickling with the old fears and heart-pain. But ever since he’d had word of a witcher in town, he’d been looking for traces of the white wolf. Knowing it was folly to entangle himself again with the witcher, he had decided to search but keep his distance.

And yet, here he was again, walking side by side, matching Geralt’s pace through the crowded street. Their arms pressed together now and then, shoulder to shoulder, and the backs of their hands brushed. With every step, a wild longing was building inside him and a familiar, hot joy.

“Did you miss me?” the witcher asked, softly enough that only he could hear.

_Every day and every night_. “On occasion,” Iorveth breathed, looking at the looming red and silver door of the inn. How foolish, how dangerous to be here, but every pulse of his blood thundered and rejoiced.

The witcher opened the door and he walked inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...this was meant to end here. I really liked the hopeful little epilogue and the final line. But a friend who read this complained that I always write characters who don't communicate well and that's why they angst so much and nothing is ever resolved. Also, there is the promise of smut that doesn't deliver. So...I'm writing an extra part where they can have lots of sex and talk about FEELINGS (sort of). If that's your cup of tea, look forward to the continuation of the Novigrad epilogue next week.


	7. epilogue continued

Geralt had to close the door to the room by backing into it because his hands were already on Iorveth, impatient, greedy, and clumsy with desire. He pulled Iorveth into him, leaning into the door, kissed him hard. Their teeth scraped together. Iorveth groaned into his mouth and surged against him, trying to find contact through layers of armor and clothing. His fingers wrestled briefly with the clasps on Geralt’s chest, but he gave up and attacked his belt instead, then abandoned that as well to clutch at Geralt’s hips and press into him roughly.

Geralt’s mouth had found Iorveth’s neck—a weakness for both of them—and he was sucking and biting his way down. He traced a long tendon with his tongue and felt the rapid beat of Iorveth’s blood thundering below. He pushed a hand underneath the collar of Iorveth’s tunic and scraped his nails over a nipple. Iorveth’s fingers pressed like a vice on Geralt’s hips, urging them even closer. He was grinding Geralt into the door. Geralt shifted and forced a leg between Iorveth’s, felt Iorveth’s hard cock riding his thigh. His own prick was aching and straining in his trousers, but he couldn’t move away enough to free it. Iorveth kissed him punishingly, rutting against him. When Geralt moved both hands to grab his ass, he felt Iorveth tense and shudder, gasping.

As their bodies stilled, Geralt laughed. “Iorveth,” he murmured, “Did you really come before we even got our clothes off?”

Iorveth was loose and sweaty in his arms. “Well, we weren’t making much progress undressing.”

Geralt groaned, the scent and feel of him driving him mad. “Fuck, I’m so hard.”

“Then do something useful and get your belt off.”

Between the two of them, they managed it eventually. But cruel Iorveth wouldn’t let him take off his trousers, just stroked him slowly through the fabric. Geralt cursed him softly. It was fucking torture. Especially when Iorveth sank down and rubbed his face there, touched his tongue to the cloth.

Geralt felt his knees going weak. His head rolled back against the door.

“Witcher,” Iorveth said and Geralt had to look at him again. Iorveth was right there between his thighs, gazing up at him with a wicked smile. “Do you have any rope in that pack of yours?”

“Oh gods,” Geralt breathed, vision blurring. “Yeah, yes, yes, I do.”

Iorveth stood and looked steadily into his eyes, so close their noses touched. His hand dropped to palm and rub Geralt’s swollen prick again, bringing a sweet rush of relief. “When you had me tied up, your hand on my bound wrists, your hot breath on the back of my neck, what did you think about? I was completely at your mercy.”

“Fuck, fuck _, fuck_ ,” Geralt panted, arching into him. He was so close so fast, Iorveth’s fingers bringing him to the brink, gaze burning into him, deep rich voice vibrating in his ears.

“Yes, but anything in particular? Trapping me against a wall? Pushing me to my knees to suck your cock?” He squeezed Geralt harshly. “Bending me over a fence and mounting me like a wolf?”

Geralt cried out something, twisting into the door as he came like a landslide. The intensity of it blinded him. His legs were giving out. Iorveth supported his weight and guided him to the bed where he could slump onto the mattress, dazed and drained.

“What happened to the famous witcher stamina?” Iorveth said, starting to remove his half-open clothing. He was practically glowing with smug satisfaction.

Geralt grinned. Oh, how he’d missed that smoldering smirk, that casual arrogance. “I lasted longer than you.”

“Well, it’s been some time for me. And you produce a peculiar reaction in me. I haven’t been able to replicate it.” Iorveth was removing his own boots, so Geralt couldn’t see his expression clearly.

“Have you tried replacing me then?” He wanted it to be light, but it sounded harsh in his own ears.

“Oh certainly,” Iorveth said, folding his clothing items neatly by the foot of the bed. “I didn’t expect to ever see you again. I attempted relationships with elves, both male and female, which were not without pleasure, but ultimately unsatisfying. I thought the key might be a human male, but, in the end, I was too disgusted by all I met to ever go through with it.” He straightened and walked to the bed where he started working at Geralt’s armor. “It seems there are very few individuals who can affect me like you do, and I have yet to encounter another so far.”

“Lucky me,” Geralt said, smiling at him.

“Unlucky me,” Iorveth said, yanking at Geralt’s boots.

When they were both fully undressed, Iorveth stretched out on the bed next to him. It squeaked under their combined weight. Geralt didn’t know what to say. He touched Iorveth’s arm, ran his fingers from shoulder to wrist. Iorveth looked pensive and tired.

“How are things in Vergen?” Geralt asked.

“Tolerable, but tense. We had a hard first winter since Henselt’s army had burned the surrounding farms. My elves spent a lot of time foraging, hunting, and fishing but we were all a bit leaner come spring. So far there haven’t been any major confrontations between the different races. Saskia has appointed an entire team to monitor and calm any issues that arise. Distrust lingers, but so far it has not turned violent.”

“Are you preparing for Nilfgaard’s approach?”

“It is inevitable. Radovid may hold them off for a time, but they will march further north eventually. That’s why I’m here, in fact. Working with you might benefit Vergen once again.”

Geralt folded an arm under his head. “How so?”

“Saskia has determined that, despite our experience with Philippa, we do in fact need mages. Sorcerers and sorceresses were the only effective defense against Nilfgaard in the last invasion. That’s why the emperor worked so hard to alienate the Council and Conclave from the rulers they served. When Radovid is hunting and killing magic users, he can’t use them to fight his war.”

“So, you’re recruiting spell-casters for your rebellion now. Anyone in particular?”

“I was hoping you might help me there, now that you’ve turned up. We had word that witch hunters were flushing out mages in Novigrad and hoped to find a few trustworthy yet desperate individuals who could be tempted to take sanctuary in Upper Aedirn. Yet I’ve been here weeks now and, so far, I’ve had little luck.”

“I don’t know of anyone specifically, but once I find Triss, she should have some names. I met Keira Metz in Velen but she’s dabbling in plagues and I don’t trust her to use caution. Also, she’s a known nymphomaniac, so that could complicate certain situations.”

“How convenient for you,” Iorveth muttered.

Geralt clenched his teeth. “Alright…are we going to do this again? Just say what you really want to. Are you going to get upset because I slept with other people after you clearly never meant to see me again? You weren’t exactly chaste either.”

“I’m not upset,” Iorveth protested. “I’m just bitter and lonely. Humor my sharpness, if you will. I don’t have your resilience, _vatt’ghern_.”

Geralt turned to look at him, surprised. “How can you be lonely?” Geralt asked, kissing his ear. “I’m right here next to you.”

“That is the conundrum, isn’t it?” Iorveth murmured. He sighed. “How did your long-awaited reunion with Yennefer go?”

Unease crept into Geralt. “It was good but strange. She was quite matter-of-fact, very focused on finding Ciri.” Then the biting comment about him and Triss, then the brief kiss that confused him. “I hadn’t seen her in years and she barely gave me the time of day. Whatever was between us seems to have faded now.”

“On her end or yours?

“Both.” He stretched his arms over his head. “We’re both intent on getting to Ciri now. I guess we’ll reminisce about the past when it’s all over.”

Iorveth turned on his side. “So, for now you are free to pursue your own destiny.”

Geralt felt a surge of guilt. “My destiny is bound to Yennefer. I made a wish once and it has changed everything since.”

Iorveth nodded. “I heard the story of the Last Wish. The jinn tied your fates together. Triss mentioned that you will always go back to Yennefer. Now I understand why.”

“But I don’t…” Geralt objected. “When we’re together we fight constantly. Yes, I care for her and I probably always will, but we are not fairytale lovers. We are drawn to each other, but at this point I think we both know it will never work.”

Iorveth brushed fingers over a long scar on Geralt’s side. “Yennefer of Vengerberg is not known for her generous spirit.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If she has any claim to you, she will not look kindly on others that share your bed.”

“She’s already taken some swipes at Triss. But her jealousy is not your concern. She just doesn’t like to see me with anyone else.”

“I can understand that,” Iorveth said softly. “When did you last see Triss?”

“About six months ago. We parted as friends, but I’m afraid she still feels resentful. I could never meet her expectations and I knew she was upset that I was looking for Yennefer, but she wouldn’t admit it. It was just too tense between us.”

Iorveth nodded. “Sharing your attention will always be a point of contention. It isn’t easy to forget a witcher.” He pressed his mouth to Geralt’s shoulder, drew a lazy circle with his tongue. “Now…let’s not waste the room you paid for.”

Something was left unsaid, but Geralt’s brain was clouding with a fog of desire. “What do you have in mind?” He stroked the black line of a tattooed branch on Iorveth’s collarbone.

“Get the rope and oil out of your pack, Gwynbleidd.”

Geralt scrambled off the bed in record time and pawed through his belongings. The rope was worn enough to have softened somewhat, although it would still chafe, no doubt. No matter, he had salves in his pack to tend his hurts. The oil he grabbed was alchemist-grade nut oil, thick and slick.

Iorveth was standing next the bed, completely bare, even his scarred face exposed, but there was a tension in him that Geralt couldn’t read.

“Bind my wrists,” Iorveth instructed. “I am your captive.”

Geralt complied, cock hardening as he stood looking at the long line of Iorveth’s back and the furrow of bunched muscles between his shoulder blades. Iorveth’s bound hands rested near his buttocks. His head was high and his expression fierce. Geralt leaned in close, lips brushing his ear, prick against his ass.

“What do you want?” he breathed, hunger turning him inside out.

“Do as you like,” Iorveth said, voice low, breathing quickly.

“That’s a lot of responsibility,” Geralt murmured. His mouth grazed the back of Iorveth’s neck, felt a shiver run through him. “Tell me if I go too far.”

“Yes,” Iorveth sighed, his eye closing.

Geralt stroked down his muscular arms with both hands, pausing to rub his thumbs over the inside of Iorveth’s elbows, the soft vulnerable spot where blood beat. He circled Iorveth’s wrists above the bindings, felt Iorveth inhale deeply.

“You’re so perfect,” Geralt murmured, hands sweeping over Iorveth’s hips to his flat belly. He licked up the curve of Iorveth’s neck. “You’re mine, aren’t you?”

Iorveth made a sound like a swallowed sob.

“No?” Geralt breathed, one hand going to Iorveth’s right nipple, the other encircling his cock. Iorveth bucked into his grip. Geralt’s own prick was smearing liquid against the cleft of Iorveth’s ass.

“Geralt,” Iorveth hissed, squirming into him.

“Yes?”

“Fuck me already.” His voice was strained and breathless.

“I thought I was in charge,” Geralt said. He circled around to Iorveth’s front and took in his furious face. “I’ll untie you when I’ve had my fill.”

Iorveth sneered briefly, but lost his composure when Geralt backed him up against the wall and sank down to the floor in front of him. Geralt sucked the flushed red cock into his mouth and heard Iorveth shout. He put both hands on Iorveth’s hips and held him where he wanted. Iorveth snarled and tried to fuck his mouth, irritated that he couldn’t use his hands. Geralt had almost complete control and he took his time with long licks and slow sucks. Iorveth cursed him fluently in several tongues. His head and shoulders fell back against the wall as he arched like a bent bow, pushing into Geralt’s mouth

When Geralt finally withdrew, scraping his fingernails down Iorveth’s thighs, Iorveth was clawing at the wall with his bound hands, red-faced and panting.

Geralt stood and put his arms around Iorveth, kissing him deeply. His mouth was hot and slack and desperate, drinking Geralt in. His prick nudged insistently against Geralt’s. Cupping Iorveth’s face, Geralt pulled away just a fraction to look at him. Heat suffused him, blurred his mind, loosened his tongue. “I wanted you the first time I saw you.” The words came out wilder than he meant. “You were an arrow at my throat, but still I wanted you.”

Iorveth stared at him, dazed and flushed with color. “You’re a fool,” he whispered.

Something clattered inside of Geralt like a chain opening a gate. Geralt pulled Iorveth away from the wall roughly, manhandled him to the bed. Iorveth stumbled and bent to the mattress under the force of Geralt’s arms. The side of his face pressed into the covers. His bound hands rested on his back. His ass was high and open. Geralt nudged his legs apart. Iorveth laughed breathily into the blankets. “ _Finally_ ,” he said.

Geralt opened the oil and spread some over his palm. “Don’t think this is the end. I have this room all day, you know.”

“You bastard,” Iorveth hissed, pushing his hips to drag his prick over the covers.

Geralt pushed an oiled finger into him without warning. Iorveth gasped and jerked. His bound hands flexed and clenched. When Geralt added a second finger, he squeezed tight around them both. “Is that all you can give me, witcher?”

Geralt forced a third finger in and heard Iorveth draw a shuddering breath. He moved his fingers in and out, pushing and prodding, annoyed that he had been goaded into moving faster than he wanted. But his own cock was throbbing, ready to spontaneously combust if he didn’t do something.

He removed his fingers and squeezed Iorveth’s buttocks, pulling them apart. Iorveth growled something into the bedding, pushing back into Geralt’s grip.

“What do you want?” Geralt asked in a growl.

“Fuck me!” Iorveth barked, arms straining against the rope.

“With what?” Geralt teased, rubbing his thumbs against the crease.

“Your huge fucking cock,” Iorveth snarled. “Put it in me already or I’ll kick you in the balls.”

“Is that how you’re going to ask for it?” Geralt nudged the head of his prick against Iorveth’s hole. “You’re not being a good captive.”

“Please, Geralt,” Iorveth groaned, voice cracking. “Please, gods, just fuck me.”

Geralt tried to push into him in one stroke, but he had forgotten how tight Iorveth could be. It was incredible how much glorious friction he encountered working his way inside him in little shoves until he was as deep as he could go.

“Oh...” Iorveth moaned twisting on the bed.

Geralt held him by the hips and fucked him slowly, shoving Iorveth into the covers with each thrust. When Iorveth was breathing fast and struggling to keep his balance, Geralt stopped. His shaking fingers unfastened the knots at Iorveth’s wrists, releasing him. Iorveth immediately dropped his arms to the bed and braced himself. Geralt began thrusting into him again, building a rhythm that increased in force until Iorveth’s limbs gave out and he sprawled onto the mattress. Geralt followed him, covering his body, still fucking him. He remembered again how fantastic it felt to take Iorveth fully and completely. He closed a hand around Iorveth’s throat, felt his racing pulse and labored breath.

“ _Geralt_ ,” Iorveth gasped.

Geralt mashed his face into the back of Iorveth’s shoulder and pulsed into him until he lost himself. The shuddering heat exploded inside his head and he groaned against Iorveth’s skin, emptying himself.

For a few moments, he could only lay there pressing Iorveth heavily into the bed, reveling in the beauty of the feeling, the quick rise and fall of Iorveth’s lungs, the smell of their sweat and the heat of their skin. Then he remembered himself and lifted away, pulling Iorveth to his side.

Iorveth was silent as they faced each other lying on the bed, but leaned his head into Geralt’s and acquiesced to a slow kiss. Geralt touched the red lines on his wrists then traced them with his tongue. “Did I hurt you?”

Iorveth smiled softly. “Not like that.”

Geralt frowned. “You didn’t come.” Iorveth’s cock was still hard and slick between them.

Iorveth chuckled. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Geralt sat up and peered around blearily. The oil had fallen to the floor, but when he picked it up, there was still enough left in the bottle to cover his fingers. He stood and leaned into the bedframe, moving one finger, then two inside his own body. He was still sensitive after his release and little flames of pleasure warmed him again. Iorveth watched him with growing interest. He sat up but Geralt pushed him down on his back and straddled his hips.

“Don’t rush yourself,” Iorveth warned him.

But Geralt was already sinking down, guiding Iorveth’s prick into him with one hand. It was more difficult that he remembered, that blunt pressure. Perhaps he hadn’t stretched himself enough. Iorveth gripped the bedding and started to tremble. The burning pain increased as Geralt forced himself down, but it was a small thing for his strong body, and the view of Iorveth struggling to remain still pleased him.

When he was fully seated, Geralt allowed himself a moment to breathe and adjust. Iorveth reached up and stroked Geralt’s knees. “Are you all right?” he asked huskily.

“Best I’ve been in a long time,” Geralt said. He rose up a little and sank down again, feeling the slide ease the discomfort and stoke a low fire inside him. “I’ve been dreaming of having you inside me for ages now.”

“You slut,” Iorveth said, huffing a laugh. His head fell back as Geralt started moving again, faster and heavier. Iorveth’s hips bounced up to meet him, but Geralt controlled their speed. He loved watching Iorveth come apart gradually, loved the rub and jolt inside himself. Geralt’s cock was hardening again so quickly he couldn’t believe it.

Iorveth growled and sat up suddenly, shoving and forcing Geralt on to his back. His head almost banged into the headboard but he turned it to the side. Iorveth grabbed Geralt’s calves and pulled him closer. Geralt folded his legs over Iorveth’s lower back, pressing his heels into Iorveth’s ass. Iorveth pushed inside him again in a hard thrust. It sent a shock of pleasure to Geralt’s cock and just like that he was completely hard. Iorveth rocked into to him, arms wrapping around him. He breathed hot against Geralt’s jaw. “Are you going to come again for me?”

“Yeah,” Geralt panted, barely able to speak. Iorveth was fucking all the words out of his head.

It went on and on, with Iorveth slowing then building speed again. Every time Geralt thought they were about to crest, Iorveth eased off, dragging his cock almost completely out of Geralt before sliding in again. Geralt pleaded and whined. He clawed at Iorveth’s back, grabbed at his hips. He bit Iorveth’s mouth and pulled his hair.

Finally, Iorveth wrapped a hand around Geralt’s leaking prick and thundered into him until they were both coming in waves and surges. Geralt felt a flood of heat inside him and he spurted up onto Iorveth’s chest and belly, arching and shouting. Iorveth muffled his own cry in Geralt’s neck.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geralt said slowly as the aftershocks of pleasure echoed through him. He sank into the mattress, every muscle in his body humming and aching. “We _are_ going to be here all day, aren’t we?”

“Shup up, witcher,” Iorveth mumbled, sprawling over him.

 

When Iorveth woke, Geralt was cleaning him gently with a damp cloth, bringing back memories of the inn in Vergen. For a moment, Iorveth thought it might be a dream. He wasn’t sure if he was happy that it wasn’t. A heaviness fell over him.

“So…we’ll find Triss and then locate one or more mages for you,” Geralt said quietly, “Do you have a way to transport them back to Vergen?”

“Yes, there’s a small ship at the docks with a captain who is sympathetic to our cause. She will sail them up the Pontar.”

“Do you have to accompany them or can you stay in town with me after?”

“It would be best if I guarded their return…”

“But they can probably manage without you.” A hand caressed the point of his hip. “Stay with me in Novigrad. We can help each other. You can collect information about Radovid and Nilfgaard and I can look for traces of Ciri.”

Iorveth steeled himself. “I don’t think it’s wise for us to associate beyond locating the mages. We have separate paths to walk.”

“Isn’t it better to stick together? You said I was special for you.” The bed creaked with the witcher’s weight as he sat. “Why did you say you were unlucky?” Geralt asked in a low voice.

Iorveth gritted his teeth. He did not want to have this conversation. “Never mind that. I don’t even remember what I was talking about.”

“You don’t want to be attracted to me, but you are? Is that what you meant?”

Iorveth forced himself to sit up, but he couldn’t meet the witcher’s eyes. “I meant that I have no choice. I am tied to you.”

Geralt stilled, obviously confused. “You have a choice.”

Iorveth’s fingernails dug into his palms. “Yes, I tried. I chose to attack your party at Flotsam, ignore your seduction at Vergen, deflect your attempts at intimacy, and leave you at Loc Muinne forever. Yet I failed at every turn…and here we are now.”

“Is that such a terrible thing? To be together now?” Geralt’s voice had a note of hurt.

Iorveth ignored it. “We are not the same. I think it must be wonderful for you to go from one partner to another and never carry any cares. You cannot impregnate and you cannot pass disease. Coupling is a pleasant pastime for you and nothing more.”

Geralt scowled and gripped the edge of the bedframe. “You know that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? Oh, you have your one great love, yes. But what about everyone else?”

Geralt swore suddenly and vehemently. “Stop taunting me and just _say_ what you want,” he spat out. “Just have the balls to tell me what you’re really feeling for once in your life.”

The ferocity in his voice shocked Iorveth into confusion. “I don’t want anything.” Iorveth pushed his hands into his eyes. “I’m not asking you for anything.” Nothing he could articulate, anyway. Nothing he could expect.

 “You told me once that no one would give you elves what you deserved. You had to take it for yourselves” Geralt’s hand rattled the bedframe.  “So be bold, stand up and take what you want for fuck’s sake. Stop defending and start attacking.”

Iorveth’s body tightened like a stretched bowstring. “What? Do you expect me to battle your sorceresses for the sole possession of your affections? They would burn me to a crisp before I even notched an arrow.”

“Is that what you want? My affections? You know you already have them.”

“Yes, as do Triss and Yennefer, and half a dozen others, no doubt.”

Geralt looked bewildered. “Is it so important to be the only one? I’m faithful when I’m with a lover who asks it of me. The problem is that none of my relationships have lasted very long. I couldn’t make it work with Triss, and I couldn’t revive what I had with Yennefer, and you seem to resist even the thought of being attached to me.” He met Iorveth’s gaze with a deep weariness. “Well, I know I’m not the perfect partner. It’s not easy to live with a witcher.”

“Yes, you do have a tumultuous and eventful life.” Iorveth turned his face away and studied a crack in the wall. Someone had tried to cover it up with a faded blue tapestry, but it snaked out longer and longer. He bit his lip and lowered his head. “Somehow…I developed an inconvenient attachment to you. I hate that you made me weak. Parting with you at Loc Muinne pained me deeply and incessantly.” He clutched at the sheets, twisting them. “To suffer that wound a second time with greater intensity…it terrifies me. But I have lived through many wounds. If my life is long, I will endure many more.”

“I never wanted to hurt you. It was agony for me to leave you then.” Geralt’s voice was pleading. He clenched and unclenched his hands. “Don’t ask me to say goodbye so soon. Saskia can spare you, yes? Vergen can run without you?”

“Perhaps, for a time,” Iorveth admitted, barely daring to say it.

“For a time,” Geralt repeated hoarsely. “That’s all I ask. Iorveth…I can’t promise you I won’t hurt you again. But isn’t it better to stay together for as long as we can? We don’t know what is coming for us, but I want to be with you right now, and no one else. You fight at my side, you help me figure things out, and you make me happy. Do you want that?”

Iorveth lifted his head and swallowed against pressure in his throat. He sucked in a shaky breath. The silence was painfully long. When he spoke, his voice was rough and breaking. “I crave it, more than everything else I should want.” He lifted his arms, presenting his open palms to Geralt like an offering. “Witcher, I am at your mercy. I am bound to you until you release me.”

Geralt blinked, stared at him with dawning joy, grabbed his hands and pulled him close. Then they were kissing desperately, frantically. “I won’t ever release you,” Geralt gasped between kisses. The friction of his beard rasped hot against Iorveth’s face. “Not unless you ask me to.”

_You say that now…_ Iorveth thought. But he wanted to believe it. He wanted to sink into the comfort and affection of his lover and let it blot out the rational world. He wrapped his arms around the witcher. Geralt’s mouth was soft and his hands were rough and strong. Geralt made pleased sounds low in his throat. Geralt believed it would all work out.

Iorveth knew better. It would not end well; he had recognized that from the start, but he chose this all the same. _“I’m happy just to have a little time with him,”_ Triss had said, and he saw himself reflected in her shimmering eyes.

Iorveth’s hands gripped hard, fingers digging into Geralt’s sides _._ Geralt drew back and looked at him searchingly. “What’s wrong?”

Iorveth felt like weeping, but he hadn’t in over a century. His remaining eye was as dry and hard as his empty one. He said in Elder Speech, “ _I am full of fears, Gwynbleidd_.”

Smoothing a hand through his hair, Geralt whispered. “Don’t think. Just live. We’re here now, together. Trust me one more time.” He cupped the back of Iorveth’s head in his palm, tilted their foreheads together.

Iorveth nodded mutely, gathering himself. Geralt embraced him again and Iorveth focused on the solid press of Geralt’s body, the strength and certainty in him. He felt the flood of anguish drain away. The ache would always be there, but he couldn’t let it consume his mind. He steadied his breathing, dropped his head to Geralt’s shoulder. Come what may, he had taken this path.

By the time they were ready to leave the inn, he had settled into himself. In his armor with his headscarf and bow and swords, he felt safe again, prepared for anything.

Geralt finished packing his things and set his bag on the bed. “Where should we go first?”

Iorveth had already considered that. “If you want to find someone in hiding, you must talk to the ears and eyes of the city. The criminals run Novigrad—at least the parts that the church doesn’t claim. They keep track of all the comings and goings. We should first consult the King of Beggars in the slums.”

“Lead the way, elf,” Geralt said, squeezing his shoulder. He looked ridiculously happy.

Iorveth wanted to tell him to stop grinning like an idiot as they were heading straight into a den of corruption and death. But he kept his mouth shut, hiding his own smile, and walked through the door with the witcher at his back.

Rain was sifting lightly through the air, sparkling on the cobblestones and the awnings of street stalls. The people of the city huddled under the protection of eaves or scurried about with cloaks drawn close about them. Only Geralt and Iorveth strode steadily down the center of the road, heads high. Iorveth wore a hood but the rain misted his face nonetheless. It shone on Geralt’s pale hair, glittered in his beard and glistened on his skin. He kept stealing glances at Iorveth as though expecting he might disappear.

Iorveth brushed his knuckles lightly against the witcher’s without looking at him. _I’m here_ , he thought at Geralt.

A warm wind blew up street, bringing the scents of wet stone and mud, cooking fires, and the deep, pungent river. The battered gate to the Putrid Grove, the thieves’ quarters, appeared ahead of them, dark with rain. Geralt, a comforting and lethal presence at Iorveth’s peripheral, sized up the tall wooden doors as they approached. Iorveth didn’t know with any certainty what perils awaited them, but, with the witcher beside him, it didn’t really matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your time reading this long piece of angsty smut. If it provided some entertainment for you, please leave feedback! Kudos and comments help me feel it's actually worthwhile to spend my time writing and editing seventy pages of video game fanfiction...
> 
> In other news, I am looking for one or more beta readers for a Geralt/Regis modern AU that I am developing. Preferably you will have some familiarity with the Witcher books and a fondness for monster-of-the-week shows like Buffy and Supernatural. Let me know if you are interested!


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